


I've Been Searching for the Directions

by noitsnotmegan



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: !!!, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Multi, Seattle, feuilly backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 22:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1796077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noitsnotmegan/pseuds/noitsnotmegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly was a wanderer, mostly. He'd live in a random town for a month or two a year, doing various jobs; anything to make him enough money for gas. It was only his old bus, his guitar dedicated solely to folk music, and himself for the four years prior to the bar fight in the middle-of-nowhere, Colorado. That was the night the human form of a riot sat down across from him and showed him what home was and how to get there. This home, three thousand and eighty-two miles from his place of birth (which meant less than nothing), became his success story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The After-Days

**Author's Note:**

> My purpose here is solely this... to provide for the highly under-written Feuilly! 
> 
> No one dies. Things are happy. People fall in love and argue and learn what it is to be human, to live and to love. Name of the fic comes from Foster the People's "The Truth". 
> 
> \--The first chapter is short and in present day; the story will be told in flashback (though you won't notice. Just bear with me this first chapter). 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy, and thank you.

_He was forty, now. Technically, he was forty yesterday as well, as it was his birthday then.. ah, whatever. Bahorel was hosting a “surprise” party for him this weekend at the park by their old apartment. Of course, it was nothing that he didn’t know about--like Bahorel could keep anything even mildly interesting or exciting from him! He was just hoping this get-together of all of their friends didn’t take the place of any other of their mandatory meet-ups. They were all adults (real adults) now, and had jobs, and it was hard to get them all in one place, as they had been fifteen years ago. Those were, truly, his favorite days--_

“Daddy! Daddy! ...Dad. DAD. Oh, my gosh. FEUILLY!” wailed a high-pitched voice from a tiny little creature, at the entrance to his office.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Feuilly turned, and saw his and Bahorel’s eight-year-old daughter. “Hey, my girl. What’s up? Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention-”

“I know you weren’t, dad,” this girl had more sass in her than Courfeyrac. Maybe they shouldn’t have ever let him babysit her. “No, so, I bet you know about what B has planned, right?”

B was what she called Bahorel. Sometimes Dad, too, but he thought that was too formal (Feuilly did _not_ understand that.) He laughed, “Yeah, Mina. You have me there--I’ve known for weeks.”

“Ha! I knew it!” She declared triumphantly. “And my name is _A_ mina. Not Mina. I’m too old for nicknames. You know, Uncle Enjolras told me that by not calling someone by their nouns is very rude. Call me by my nouns, or I’ll only call you Feuilly.”

_God, where did she get this stuff?_ Feuilly asked himself. “Okay, Miss _A_ mina. But, you know, I think Uncle E was talking about people’s pronouns, not their actual nouns, hon. Their pronouns are like he and she, or xem, or them, so on… How they want to be referred to. Those are very important, though.”

Using his own words against him, she shot back, “Well, I want to be referred to as Amina.”

“As you wish, little princess. Now come sit down, Amina! You’ve been standing there for more than a few minutes. Come over here.” Feuilly waved his hand to the bench he was sitting on. It was a perfect little window seat, with light green cushions and an awesome view of the Lake. Lake Washington, specifically--he and Bahorel had moved out to Bellevue in their early thirties, leaving their Seattle apartment behind. 

Amina ran over and curled up with Feuilly, looking out across the lake at Seattle. They were thinking somewhere along the same track, made evident as she looked up and asked, “Dad? The party is this weekend… With all of you and B’s friends. Like, all of them, even the really little, pretty one, Jehan? I just don’t understand how- oh, I don’t _know_ \- how you guys have so many best friends! I only have one best friend! But there’s nearly ten of you! How do you all keep up with each other, you don’t even live close. And how did you guys even meet and all get along?!” The inquiries never stopped, with her. Feuilly’s best guess was that it was part of being eight.

Feuilly sighed, knowing he was about to get into quite a long, detailed story. His daughter was never satisfied until she knew everything (it had been horribly awkward when she found the condoms… He had made Bahorel take that one). “You really want to know?” He asked. “It’s a bit of a long story, I’m not entirely sure you want to hear it…”

“Of course! I wanna know everything, Dad!” Amina looked up at him, eyes bright. “Pleaaase?”

_Crap._ Feuilly’s life (especially after meeting Bahorel) were not the most, um, child-friendly. He was going to have to word this particular story very carefully. “Well, alright then. Whatever Princess Amina wants!” 

Whatever she wanted, except it would be: cursing-free, sex-free, drug-free, violence-free… highly abridged. Again, _crap_. Feuilly supposed he could come up with something..?

While he dove through his memories, trying to find a reasonable place to begin storytelling (and adding in or removing certain… events), he began to remember more and more about his life, little things he’d forgotten. Tiny details started coming back to him; how the cicadas hummed during summer nights in the college dorms in the Florida Panhandle, how coffee and cigarettes tasted at 4 a.m. in upstate New York, how a pair of rough hands were the first to touch him and mean anything in Missouri, how gleaming brown eyes sought out his soul, walking out of a Colorado bar. Feuilly felt as if he were travelling back in time, back to everything he’d ever known and felt before Bellevue, before today. It was nothing Billy Pilgrim-esque--he may have written a mildly successful book or two, but he was no Vonnegut!

“Looking back” was something Feuilly never did; he’d learned ages ago not to carry sentiment for years or moments passed. Things change, and people do too. He was a firm believer that you cannot spend or waste time on your backstory baggage, whether it was truly baggage or not. He’d been a wanderer, he couldn’t afford tying things down. Though, as years passed, he’d grown, and settled, and loved it, looking back was simply a trait he still refused.

This time, however, he knew the story would have a happy ending. His daughter, sitting here with him, in a modest house with a love that could fill oceans (or beer bottles, at least), were more than enough proof of that. Feuilly had actually achieved a happy ending, despite everything.

And knowing that was all he needed to leap back in his memories, to a time of drifting and of adventure, of working and of a broken heart, unadmitted. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I know the first chapter was very, very short--not to fear, the writing will be here!  
> I wasn't entirely sure how I wanted to write the intro chapter, so I hope you will all forgive me. The rest of the fic will be written with Feuilly, still, as the lead main character, but in his memory. There will be no jumping back and forth in time, from his POV in the present with his daughter, to the POV of the memory, it'll simply be set back in time. He's remembering, but the fic will just continue on from there!  
> (Sorry if I'm confusing y'all. You'll see how it works out!)  
> Next chapter will be longer--I'm planning on 13-15 chapters in total.  
> Enjoy! -noitsnotmegan


	2. Hell-Bent Kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Feuilly came to be who and how he is, and how a bar fight changes more than he'd expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks, all, for the views and kudos! excited to keep on with this story. apologies for any extended length of time between updating! enjoy.

He was seventeen. 

His "place of residence" was a small, swampy town in Florida, with his parents and all the siblings he didn't have. 

He reluctantly attended Crapview High School, or so he dubbed it, for four seemingly-infinite years with no love or care for any of it. 

He was now a senior, with three weeks and two days left of school. That was seventeen school days--seventeen. Must've been his lucky number, or something. Seventeen days to tell those in his class, who'd tell their parents, who'd get back to his parents. Oh well. He'd already gotten a community college lined up in the Panhandle--he could get two hours and a lifetime away from this unsatisfying, oppressive stink of a town. Heaven- or hell, as he'd like to think- knows he'd already spent way too many years here. That big-enough college didn't mind his average grades, his lack of participation in anything besides baseball, and his paying his own way through college. They wanted him to "thrive, in a positive environment", or so they said on the acceptance letter, anyway. He didn't care; as long as he could afford it, and get out of here. 

"Hey, Feuilly! Only a few more weeks left, now, huh? You ready, man?" This (very loud) morning hello came from Nicholas, the one person at school who actually somewhat knew him. Yeah, he had friends--just not close ones. Everyone knew everyone, and he mostly just kept to himself, even with the baseball team. It's not like he was shy, either; Feuilly truly just did not give a shit. Nicholas was somewhat of an exception. He was relentless. Finally, after three years of him following Feuilly around and pestering him nonstop throughout all of middle school, Feuilly admitted he loved having him around. 

"Yeah, Nicholas, I'm ready, hell. You're insane if you think I'm not!" The wild light in his eyes was probably there, he knew. Talking, thinking, dreaming about leaving made him exuberant, and, well, slightly crazy-looking. 

Nicholas grinned back at him--he was going to University of Florida, and was almost as excited as Feuilly to leave. As a group of kids they hung out with greeted them in passing, he grew serious. "Feuilly? Have you told your parents? Or anyone?" he whispered. 

Exhaling, Feuilly replied with a roll of the eyes at his best friend, "No, Nicholas. I'd tell you. But no. I've still got a while left. I was thinking I'd go out with heels and a giant pop of glitter at graduation." 

"Shut the hell up, dude. I'm serious. If you don't want to, then fine. Don't. Not until the end, but hey, you know I'm here and I'd do anything to anyone who tries to fuck with you." 

"I know." Nicholas was the only one who knew about the "sodomy situation" (the term used by a local politician when referencing gay people--yeah, it was more than fucked up) in Feuilly's life. "Yeah, I know." 

 

Sixteen days later, Feuilly came out. He walked up to the front of the cafeteria, on the last full day of school, stood up on the stage, and loudly stated, "My name is Feuilly. Y'all know that. I'm a baseball player, a senior, and can't wait to get the hell out of this school. Oh, yeah--I'm gay. Sayonara." 

Everyone stared. Nicholas whistled ( _shut the fuck up_ , Feuilly thought). He bowed. Then walked off the stage, picked up his backpack, and left for the last time. 

And there were neither heels, nor glitter, thank you very much. 

* * *

 

For the next four days, he avoided his parents as much as possible without seeming strange. Graduation was when they found out. The concerned parents of the dear, darling, ~~highly conservative~~ Emma Wiley asked them if they wanted to send their son to Young Baptists camp with Emma the next week. Walking across the stage was fine--he wheedled the counselor into letting him go right after Nicholas. It was after, when he had to face King and Queen White of All Whites (his parents, he so affectionately called them), that turned his face nearly as red as his hair. 

To be short about it, Feuilly's parents did not understand at _all_. They told him, "How could you be gay? You don't even look gay! You talk like a boy! You don't even look at shopping magazines or watch reality shows... we just don't get it, honey!" _...Seriously. What the fuck?_  

His response was this: "I still like fishing, and baseball. I still love old guitars and road trips. I just like guys. So, dear parents: Fuck. Off." 

He went home, packed his bags, grabbed his acoustic, and went to Nicholas'. They decided to leave the next week, and find somewhere to stay for the upcoming two months. 

* * *

 

The summer was relatively shitty--Feuilly had no home, no money, and refused to reach out to family for either one. He and Nicholas shared a rent-a-room type of place while they worked minimum wage jobs. This went on until Nicholas could move into the dorms at UF and Feuilly's college had apartments ready for rent. After that, they went their own ways. They talked often enough, but hardly ever saw each other; neither ever went home for holidays, and they lived across the state. Neither one had much sentiment for high school, and they became mostly memories. Albeit, the only good memories from their early lives. 

While Feuilly didn't attend a real university, he loved his classes (while conveniently being able to afford his education) and the people he met there. He actually did things, unlike in high school, where he was the crowned ruler of the slackers. He learned, he was passionate, he joined clubs, he made friends. There were even people there who not only didn't have an opinion about the fact that he was gay, but were completely okay about it. It wasn't a defining factor. He was gay, and he was Feuilly. He wasn't the kid who came out, or who was "closeted all his life". There were cool people and many a drink to be had. His grandfather (Pops, he called him) actually reached out to him, they met up a few times. He was accepting. The last time they met- as Feuilly told him it would be- he drove up in what would become Feuilly's beloved vehicle. A dark green Chevy Greenbrier, a big ol' bus-type--it was great. He loved it immediately. Still, the acceptance- or whatever- didn't turn him into a sentimental man. He got his associate's degree (in what? Nothing important. Marketing), and got the fuck out of Florida. At twenty years old, he left the state, without plans to ever return. 

* * *

 

He'd gone around the United States since then, with his Greenbrier being his only permanent home. He worked odd labor jobs-like logging, surprisingly, he was a fan of that- and random craftsmanship shit. His artistic side flared- how had he never known he could paint? Stayed nowhere longer than a month. He'd accomplished his goal of visiting all forty-eight continental states... not like he could drive over the ocean to Hawaii. Alaska necessitated too much gas money and a passport to go through Canada. Nothing was truly important; he didn't even know why he did what he did. He could've easily gotten a good job and a nice apartment. He was really just a wanderer, and he knew it. The road welcomed him. The jobs provided money. The Greenbrier held his life. 

Emotions were few and far between. There were guys, they came and went. Nights spent feeling good, mornings, needing a shower. The best part of it all was hearing stories told at the places he went--he learned pieces of people's lives while ignoring his own. Some would say the worst was not having a home, not having love or people to love, and refusing your mind, your talent, your humanness, but for Feuilly, that was all fine. A coping mechanism, you could say. Although, that was not something he would ever admit to. 

* * *

 

The latest stop was an insignificant small town in Colorado. Six years had passed since his initial leaving behind of Florida. Feuilly had done a few things since he'd been there, but he'd quit the jobs two weeks ago. He was taking a break from anything more than bumming cigarettes and playing old folk songs (of his own, and of more famous origin) in dimly-lit bars. September was drawing to a close, the nights beginning to come a bit earlier, the air thinning out even more than normal. It hadn't rained since he'd been there; the drought could've very well been a part of the seeming onset of autumn. Tonight, Feuilly was just having a drink, without the guitar and the whole tortured-boy facade that unintentionally shrouded him whilst playing. The beat-up leather jacket was still there, though, slung over the bar where he sat. 

Down the bar, some shit broke out--he didn't even know what it was about. Bar fights. They happen all the time. Older guys, drunk as hell, and often times more ignorant than should be possible. Feuilly might've liked a good fight, but he in no way set out intending to get drunk and start one, like these guys. 

...Setting out to get drunk, on the other hand... well, yeah. Feuilly did that a lot. 

The guys were still arguing, and he was pretty sure fists were about to start flying. Normally, he'd let the bartender handle it, but this one looked about as drunk as the guys fighting. He heard a sloppy _crunch_ of knuckle against nose, and a few other guys in there half-heartedly shouted at them to stop. They didn't, of course, and one guy even tried to pull them off each other before Feuilly got up. He walked over there, and socked the instigator in the face; once, twice, three times before he was off the stool and on the floor. This, done with a load of indifference, a stony face, and a lit cigarette still in his mouth, more than piqued the interest of the older, gruffer men around the place. He doesn't need approval for shit like this, though, and it's not like they would do more than huff like he were their son; he doesn't need parents, either. 

Ignoring the applauding stares, he returned to his stool at the bar he was at before his nonchalant display of talents. Still stone-faced, he grabbed his jacket, his half empty beer, and left to go sit in the darkest corner of the already shadowy, dingy bar. He wanted nothing more than the few faces that were there to turn away from him, and that particular gesture showed his sentiments well. The men stopped glancing his way, and he thought he got his brooding silence back to himself. 

Not fifteen seconds after he sat down, however, a seemingly gigantic hand clapped him on the back. _What the fuck? Fucking serious?_  Feuilly muttered to himself, displaying the entirety of his pessimistic irritation on his freckled face. 

The hand was accompanied by a bellowing laugh, while it dragged across his shoulder (not too slowly or anything; just enough for him to notice. Whoever the man is, he's going to pay a _little_ attention). The hand dropped away, just as a relatively big guy- okay, he's more muscular and even taller than Feuilly, which is an accomplishment- with an even bigger smile threw himself into the chair across the table from Feuilly. 

 _Maybe this isn't the worst thing that could happen,_ Feuilly thought, as he regarded the man in front of him. Dark, tanned skin, long brown hair pulled back with a hair tie, huge, dark eyes gleaming out at him. Bearded. _Not bad at all; though, probably... never mind. Not here._

"Hey! I saw that whole thing from the door--I'd gone to the back, and when I came back, hell! There you were. Kickin' ass and takin' names. Except not, cause that's fucking cheesy. And it looked like you didn't give a shit, whatsoever. I at least would've grinned about it or something, man. Fuckin' awesome." 

The guy was way too enthusiastic about this, but for some reason, it amused Feuilly. "Yeah, thanks. It was nothing. I just came here to drink and be at peace with myself, not to hear two fuckheads battle it out over whatever trucker competition they were probably discussing." 

"I see your point, but a good fight is kind of my thing. Live for 'em, I tell you. And if you're halfway through your fourth beer- which, judging by the look in your eyes, you're somewhere around there- and down to the ashes of your cigarette, you're not at peace with yourself." 

"I like to fight. But on my own terms. Not this shit." Feuilly didn't comment on the second part of the rather fervent man's words. The opinion on how peaceful he was was not highly appreciated. 

The stranger looked a bit disbelieving, probably at his refusal to say anything about his current condition. He didn't need to know everything Feuilly thought. "Well, then, have it your way. I'll take it where it comes." 

"Hmph, bet you would!" He didn't know where _that_ came from--he never joked with people, not one-on-one like this. And with what could be sexual undertones? Feuilly was questioning himself. This stranger's smile was infectious, and he did not approve. 

Laughing, the amusing man mockingly smiled and said, "Oh, how could you guess so easily?" This actually drew a chuckle out of Feuilly. "Hey man, I'm passionate... _passionate_." He winked then, shocking Feuilly with he-didn't-know-what. 

"Ha. You think you're good. I'm sure I've done better than you have." 

"Yeah, right! Well, maybe... No. Bet not." 

Feuilly stared at him, eyebrows up, eyes judging. "What the fuck ever, man!" How had he loosened up so easily? 

_Swear to god, I was high-passed pissed five minutes ago._

Closing his bright-toothed grin, which hadn't left his face, the man gave voice to his name. "I'm Bahorel, by the way. Might be a smart thing to tell you, I guess. Sorry for not already!" 

 _Bahorel. Okay._ "Yeah, mine is Feuilly. Names are typically pretty important." He'd gotten his habitual composure back together. 

"Nice to meet you, Sir Feuilly. Where are you from? By the accent, I'd say, not here." 

"Nowhere. I'm from nowhere." 

"Ah, a mystery man." Truthfully, Feuilly knew what he'd set himself up for with that answer. He didn't mind, this time. "So, Feuilly of Nowhere, how have you come about to be in Also Nowhere, Colorado?" 

"I could ask you the same thing. I was here doing logging work... that kind of shit. Took the last part of the month off, before I pack up my practically zero belongings and head off, somewhere else." 

"Well, we all have different interests." 

"Shut up," said Feuilly, scoffing. His ears were definitely _not_ burning. 

"In all seriousness, I flew here from Washington. I was running away from my friend. I may or may not have set his Modern Poetry textbook on fire, under the guise of him needing to go out more often. His boyfriend was in on it, so, no harm done, right? Wrong. His entire body was probably the color of your hair. Which is very nice, by the way. But I got scared. So I ran away." The stranger- Bahorel- was he serious? _What? He said my hair was nice. Did he say his friend had a boyfriend? So, he's cool with that. And--Jesus, stop. Reply._

"Jesus Christ, what? I can't even tell if you're being serious. I feel like you're just shitting me, for kicks and giggles. And you? Afraid of someone? I thought you loved a good fight!" Feuilly teased, "and thanks, about my hair, I guess. I like your, uh, tattoo." He only said it to sound cooler (and less blatantly gay) than "I like your face." It was something on his knuckle, he didn't really look. 

"No--I'm completely serious! And no, not with this friend. He's terrifying. And sure, no problem... You mean this one?" Bahorel pointed to his other hand, which... _oh, shit._ Feuilly's compliment turned out to be no less gay than the less-dignified one he'd originally thought of. His tattoo was a pink triangle. A Pink. Triangle. An international symbol representing homosexuality. _Fuck me_ , Feuilly thought. 

"Um, oh, shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to compliment, uh, that-" 

"Feuilly, relax. You don't have to freak out. Obviously, if I've got a pink triangle tattooed _on my body_ , I'm somehow queer." His tone was much too amused for Feuilly's current state of embarrassment. 

"Uh, sorry. I'm sorry. I was originally going to tell you that I liked your face, but that seemed far too upfront for a random guy in a definitely non-gay bar, so I said the first thing that came to mind, and I didn't really look, and it was still super gay." _God, I'm stupid._  

"No worries. Don't freak. I'm gay, too, so, no harm done. It's nothing to worry about, promise. The tattoo is meant to be a comfort, not a threat! And I knew you were, anyway." 

"What? How did you know?" While he may have been comfortable in college, his sexuality just wasn't something he flaunted. It still scared him, in his reclusiveness. 

"Dude, you've got R.E.M. lyrics all down your forearm. Michael Stipe is exceedingly queer, by my research and his own words. I've studied up." 

"R.E.M. is in no way a gay indicator, Bahorel!" 

"Yeah, but that, combined with the masculine pronouns that could've been excluded, and your other tattoos... it was a signal. A very weak signal, but like I said, I have studied. I know what I see." 

"Well you're not wrong, but still!" Feuilly huffed. He didn't like appearing so easily read. 

"Mmhm. Bahorel is correct. Bahorel is always correct." 

"Why are you referring to yourself in the third person? It makes you look stupid." 

"I thought I had a nice face?" 

"Okay, hush. Your face is still nice even when it's stupid." 

With another mocking smile that was now slightly familiar, as it was used so much by this grinning giant, Bahorel shot back "Oh, why thank you, dear Feuilly. Your compliments make my world spin 'round, really." 

Face going completely deadpan, with created irritation, Feuilly glared. "Shut the fuck up." 

An attempted "I-hate-you" staring contest then ensued, ending with a loud burst of laughing and a spilled beer. While they tried to clean it up, Feuilly asked the extremely dorky, huge, ~~and attractive~~  Bahorel how long he planned to stay in this little town. He answered not long, that he was planning on leaving within the next few days or so to go back. He figured a week was long enough for his unnamed friend to cool off. When Feuilly inquired how he planned to get back home- Seattle, he learned- the answer actually made his jaw drop. 

"Well, I didn't buy a plane or bus ticket home. I was planning on hitchhiking back."

Wide eyed, Feuilly looked at him incredulously. "Are you fucking serious?" 

Completely sure of himself, Bahorel replied, "It's my way of meeting new people." 

"Is that even safe?!" 

"Not at all." Bahorel grinned at him, as he stood there, completely dumbfounded. 

"No. I have a bus, we're leaving in the morning." _What. Shit._  Feuilly had never let anyone in his Greenbrier. Ever. 

Bahorel raised his eyebrows in question. "How do I know you're not an axe murderer?" 

Feuilly's face read "shut the hell up, fucker." That was all the convincing Bahorel needed. 

"Okay. I think I can take you, if you try to kill me..." 

"I'd like to see you try, Bahorel!" Feuilly held up a fist at him, in jest. "We leave in the morning. You can sleep in the bus with me, overnight." 

They were walking toward the bar's exit, and Bahorel replied, "O-gay." 

Feuilly completely stopped and turned around, tilting his head up slightly at the taller man. _"What the fuck did you just say?"_

"I said okay. Duh. Can you not hear?" 

"Jesus, Bahorel, shut the FUCK up." 

He turned back around, but not before catching the bright smile spreading across Bahorel's bronzed face. 

Feuilly already liked this guy. 

* * *

 

The rain began just as they stepped outside. 

Feuilly, who was constantly prepared for any condition concerning the weather (he lived on the road, how could he not be?), took off his jacket and held it up over the both of them. Bahorel thanked him, jokingly, as was his apparent tendency. It was then, as Feuilly raised his jacket, that Bahorel got a good look at the tattoos that covered the majority of his arms. He'd gotten glances at the images inside the bar, but now he could read the lyrics that were mixed in.

His favorite (that was currently in view, anyway) was the R.E.M. lyrics he'd spotted originally. It was from a song he didn't recognize, but the band's name was at the bottom of the tattoo. That's the reason he'd even noticed it out of everything else. The lyrics, in specific, that Feuilly had were this: 

_I sit at my table and wage war on myself, it seems like it's all for nothing_

_I know the barricades, I recognize the weapons, I've used them well_

_this is my mistake, let me make it good_

_I've a rich understanding of my finest defenses_

_this is my life and this is my time_

_I have been given the freedom to do as I see fit_

_I raised the wall and I will be the one to knock it down_

It fit him, Bahorel thought, as much as he could perceive words fitting a man he hardly knew. 

Bahorel had taken a natural inclination to this red-haired recluse, who had baggage far exceeding his, he could tell, and planned on making him stick around far past their Seattle destination. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! I greatly enjoyed writing this chapter--see, it's longer than the previous! I promised. The song that Feuilly has tattooed is called World Leader Pretend; I thought y'all might get a kick out of the "barricades" lyric. Amusingly fitting, for canon-Feuilly and the Feuilly I'm writing. You will come to see more of both Feuilly and Bahorel's tattoos as time passes! Also, let me know if you'd like having more of Bahorel's view included, like at the end.  
> Also: my headcanon face-claim for Feuilly and Bahorel. Feuilly is Thomas James McDade (http://31.media.tumblr.com/4b3344bda99ce95ded8677070aece0f4/tumblr_myxwlx0Zpv1rw08nho3_500.jpg) Bahorel is Devran Takesen (http://38.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_meesopVfy51qiiqfso1_1280.jpg)
> 
> Thank you all, again! I appreciate it. Sending love.


	3. Morning Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Feuilly wakes up on his bus the next morning and hears breathing, he doesn't really remember what's going on. After the realization that- hey, there's another guy in here- he begins thinking that maybe this trip with someone else won't actually be too bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! sorry for not updating--i've been out of town! had an awesome trip. with this chapter, i'm just going! don't have much of a plan for it, not like the last one. excited to write it and see where it goes. thanks for your interest!

Feuilly awoke slowly the next morning, with a thin ray of morning light shining into his eyes that had escaped from the makeshift curtains of the Greenbrier. This was the normal for him; he rose when the sun said he should. He thought it more convenient than an alarm clock--the only sort of plug he had was a cigarette lighter, and that charged his crappy phone. Feuilly was more attracted to natural things anyway, to nature. It was why he liked working outside, or with earthy things, why he travelled instead of staying in a home. And anyway, he thought ten bucks for an annoying beep that would probably malfunction was a waste.

As he lay there in his bed (really, it was just the seats on the right side knocked out and a mattress laid down), he naturally accustomed himself to the morning and to what the day ahead would bring. It was as he did every morning--he would wake up, lie with open and ever-curious eyes, and think. Think about the day tomorrow, the day before, the days ten years ago, and what days could be like if he were not who he were. Feuilly loved thinking like that, about such simple and such expansive things, all at once. That was his routine. Himself, his Greenbrier, the morning and his mind. So, when he heard a noise that was anything more than those things- his typical company- he was more than startled.  _What the hell? Is that.. breathing?_ Feuilly thought, interrupting his own calm. His eyes had gone from glazed and contented with morning light to huge, round and- frankly- scared.  _Who is in my bus? No one should be in here?_

Feuilly carefully inched up to a sitting position in his bed, trying not to be heard by the other... _person?_ who was... _sharing occupancy?_   Well, okay, the person wasn't in the front of the bus, where he faced. Very bewildered, he turned, managing (miraculously) to not creak the bus or the bed. 

"...Who the fuck is that" 

"Oh, Jesus!" 

"Oh my god. Oh, shit. Shit." 

The shock came first, recognition a tiny minute later. _Bahorel._  Feuilly asked himself how could he have let a total stranger into his bus, HIS bus, in the middle of the night with plans to drive him all the way to SEATTLE?! He sat there, mumbling all of this to himself, while the other man (who... well, he.. okay. Feuilly had to admit it. He looked way better than most should when they're asleep. Granted, the light was making his skin look even tanner, and the shadows...) 

"Fuck." Feuilly turned again and punched his pillow, and even he didn't know if it was at himself for allowing Bahorel in the Greenbrier or for thinking about how.. attractive he was. _Fuck fuck fuck._  

He wouldn't look in the direction of the sleeping man again--that would mean owning up to all he'd decided to do, and done already. Feuilly would just have to face the consequences. Really, the worst that could happen was that he would have someone to talk to, on a road trip, right? His life was made of interconnecting road trips. However, those were always solitary. He liked solitude, he preferred it. So, why had he agreed to this comic's card-play? 

He must've had a quite exasperated and distraught face on, because when he looked up again, Bahorel was sitting up in the seat, with a broad smile playing across his sleepy face. Feuilly's skin burned, utterly embarrassed. Of course, this only made Bahorel begin chuckling. _Oh, great,_  Feuilly rolled his eyes internally. 

He cleared his throat, addressing the man across from him, "Uh, good morning." _How have I gone from cool guy in a bar to seventh-grade idiot in one night?_  

Looking rather pleased, Bahorel replied, "Morning to you too. How long have you been up?" 

"Yeah, not long. Maybe five minutes? Did I wake you up, though? I'm sorry, I--" 

"No, you didn't, no worries. I would have said it was the pillow-punching, but I was conveniently already awake to see that. Pretty amusing. Unless, of course, you've got a horrible personal vendetta against pillows, then I will happily assist you in beating them up." 

Feuilly turned his cutting glare (a personal favorite of his) straight at Bahorel, accompanied by a flying pillow. 

"It's only 7 a.m., and I'm already getting the glare of death?!" The pillow hit him, right in the face. "AND an attack pillow! See! I knew you had something against them!" 

"I have NOTHING against pillows!" Feuilly was trying to stay annoyed, but that wasn't working for him, as the other party was making a noise that somehow resembled both a grown man guffawing and a child's giggling. 

The giggling/guffawing man held the pillow away from Feuilly's hand, which was reaching out to grab it back. "If you want this pillow back, you have to get up, come over here, and fight me for it!" 

At that, he jumped off the bed and across the aisle at Bahorel. "I WILL GET THIS PILLOW!" He shrieked, "let it GO!" Bahorel threw it at the window behind him, not at all shocked by the redheaded ball of rage coming at him. 

"I let it go!" Bahorel mocked. "You can't be mad at me now!" 

"But it's behind you! I still can't get it!" 

"So try. You said you thought you could take me, right?" 

With something that sounded not unlike a war cry, Feuilly attempted to launch himself over Bahorel in the direction of the pillow. Bahorel yelled, too, as the other man (who was amazingly awake for it being so early) landed heavily on him, halfway over his shoulder. "Get off me, you shithead!" 

"I'M NOT ON YOU" Feuilly shouted, as he wormed his away off of him, to his intended destination. 

"How were you NOT on me?! You were crushing me!" Bahorel shrilled back, with a mocking incredulousness. 

The man now hugging the pillow- which, honestly, wasn't even anything special, it was just a white pillow- sat there with his mouth agape. "Excuse me? Are you insinuating that I would do something like that? Oh, how you know me!" 

"I don't even know you that well!" Bahorel laughed. "That didn't even work for you!" 

"But this will!" Feuilly said, as he tackled Bahorel from the side, knocking them both onto the floor. "I will kill you, kid!" 

He huffed as he was knocked down, still laughing, "Yeah, right! You can't take me--and I'm pretty sure I'm older than you!" 

A fist, covered in a mix of freckles and ink, flew towards Bahorel, aiming for- thankfully- not his face. It connected with his shoulder, and Bahorel replied by reaching out with his own arms and pummeling Feuilly's chest. The two of them were completely tangled up and smashed together in the bus aisle and fighting like twelve-year-olds. Bahorel- who definitely was the bigger man- was pressed against the floor by the crazed redhead. Caught in this rather.. _compromising_  position, he could do two things: kiss him, right on the lips, and shock Feuilly into losing (which he _so_ would've done with any of his friends in Seattle), or issue a wrestle match! _Feuilly's definitely a good competitor,_ Bahorel thought, while protecting his face from flying hands. With his decision made, wrestling ensued--he kicked out at Feuilly's stomach, knocking him backward. Feuilly's face was one of pure rage, a face as mad as could be while trying to not bust out laughing. 

Bahorel then jumped on top of him and sat down, squishing him (more than uncomfortably) and slapping his head left and right. "I've got you nooooow!" He howled, as Feuilly suffered his self-made consequences. 

The ridiculousness between Feuilly and Bahorel continued on for a few minutes, until finally, Feuilly called out for a truce. "Okay, okay! I am done. Really done. Remind me to never pick a fight with you, again."

Despite the finality of his words, he was still trying to push Bahorel around, but softer now. The whole wrestling thing had been, well, way more flirty and teasing than the matches he'd had in his younger years. And his hands, which never touched anyone with actual happiness and pleasure, were accompanied with lightheartedness as he played with Bahorel's arms. He wasn't a touchy-feely person, he was a recluse. Didn't like talking to many people. Feuilly was thoroughly shocked with himself, at playing around with this man that he hardly knew, as if they'd been extremely close for ages. _I mean, I don't_ not _enjoy this... not at all_ , Feuilly said silently, _but I don't do things like this. I don't form connections, and this is already becoming one_. His train of thought, that was so identical to the way he lived his life, led him to drop his hands from their place against Bahorel's shoulders and into his own lap. A pair of warm brown eyes turned up at him, with a brief flash of both confusion and disappointment. 

There was no chance for Feuilly to offer an explanation; which, honestly, relieved him. There were too many conflicting thoughts running through his mind on a good, normal day, without this twist in the plot... Bahorel. Although, this day had started off pretty damn good, to Feuilly. Bahorel had climbed back into a seat, offering an assisting hand down to Feuilly. "Come on, man. We've gotta get something to eat! I'm starving," He'd dragged out the word, making his already-big gestures even more ridiculous. Feuilly chuckled as he heaved himself up onto his bed. 

"Alright, sounds fine to me. Wouldn't want you complaining of hunger all the way to Seattle. I might just have to kick you out and let you hitchhike with a wolf." He may have been glad to let the last part of their interaction go, but he'd enjoyed the jest. Maybe this relative-stranger could help him relax and loosen up, to who he once was, at least.

Bahorel fist-punched the air, not helping the overgrown child image Feuilly had affectionately put together of him. "YES! So, I don't know where you eat- or even if you eat, I mean, like I said, you could be anyone. Maybe even a werewolf," Feuilly gave him a look at that, "But anyway! I know a place."

"Know a place? You've only been here around five days! I've been here nearly a month!"

"Yeah? Think you're so fancy, huh?"

"Dude. I drive a _bus_ around. You flew here. But yes. I'm fancy as fuck, if that means I know where the best breakfast place is." He was more than self-satisfied, but... "I'd like to hear what you think the best joint is." 

"The Lamplight Diner!" Bahorel exclaimed, much too excited about his little "victory". 

Feuilly's mouth dropped. "You've only been here five days, and you already know about the quality of The Lamplight? How?!" He hadn't even discovered the place for a while after he'd arrived. 

A smug smile appeared on the other man's lips. "You don't need to know my secrets. But, it does seem as though we've decided on breakfast. Now, do your magic, and take us there!" 

 _Who_ is _this man?_ Feuilly thought, incredulously. _He goes from child, to ultimate influencer, to Mr. High-Flown Grammar. Hmph!_

He laughed out loud, and Bahorel got up, grinning (at Feuilly, though the oblivious man didn't know so), and made his way to the passenger's seat in the front of the Greenbrier. Feuilly followed behind him, wishing for a fleeting moment that they hadn't agreed to sleep fully clothed (to avoid any future charges, of course! Bahorel had assured). _Even in jeans... no. This is not the place, nope._

Throwing himself down in the driver's seat, he takes a minute to collect himself--while still smiling. 

"What are you smiling at?" 

"Oh, nothing. Just smiling. I just, ah, I don't know. I just feel good right now." 

"So why couldn't you just say so? Everything is right when you feel right, when you feel good, and happy." Bahorel's smile, then, had been less joking and more affectionate. "So be happy. There's nothing wrong with that." 

Feuilly turned his light hazel eyes at the darker man, with his usual judging and incredulous look completely gone. In its place was something that resembled hope, although hidden. He felt a little bit speechless, and not by his choice, as he would be normally. "Well, yeah. I mean, I know that. That I should be happy. I've always thought exploring, just by myself, was what would make me happy. And it suffices." 

"You say it does." 

"Maybe I need more. I don't know how or where to find it, not in more than bits and pieces, anyway. But this morning has been a good chunk of happy, so, thanks." He smiled, awkwardly, at what he'd said. 

"Problems with showing affection, I see?" Bahorel laughed--not rudely. Feuilly guessed he was good at breaking up what was too serious when needed, but that he wasn't someone who couldn't handle it. He understood people's limits, even if not having many himself. 

"No! Not that. Well, yes, okay, that! I haven't had a boyfriend since college!" Beside himself, he laughed. Only a minute before he'd been teetering dangerously close to the emotions he didn't bring into the open. 

"See! Affection issues. You've got them." Bahorel punched him on the arm, messing with him. 

"You've backed me into a corner, here. I literally cannot get out of this one... the door is on your side!" 

Bahorel found the literal and non-literal joke hilarious, and bust out laughing. When he finally quieted down, his stomach growled almost as loud as his laugh, and he once again demanded breakfast. They were both close to tears, laughing at one another, as Feuilly started the Greenbrier and pulled out of the parking lot of the bar (he'd made an agreement with the owner, on staying there overnight. It avoided him having to pay ridiculous amounts for public lots!). 

* * *

 

Feuilly and Bahorel were in the Lamplight Diner and seated in less than five minutes--the Colorado town the two were in really was tiny. The waitress- a petite, quiet girl, with dark eyes that always made Feuilly think of his own- had worn a look of small shock when Feuilly walked through the door not by himself, but with Bahorel. Feuilly knew that she had to have seen Bahorel before, so it wasn't the surprise of his sheer size, but probably just the fact that he was actually with someone else. And _laughing_. He hardly ever smiled, at the diner or in general, especially since he'd been in this town. He'd been worse since he arrived there, from what; he wasn't sure. Years of solitude could take a toll on someone. 

The waitress had seated them in Feuilly's favorite booth (right beside a window that looked out into the forest), walking the whole way in front of them with lips quirked up around the edges. She took their drink orders, "Coffee, black, for you," this was Feuilly's default--when you worked weird places and were always leaving, it was something you could count on! "And for you," she said as Bahorel looked up at her with a genuinely kind, silly smile, "Also coffee. Not black. Two creamers, two sugars. And Cool Whip on top." 

"What?! What the--what is all that you put in your coffee? Are you crazy?!" Feuilly demanded, his mouth open in disbelief. 

Neither noticed, but the waitress had her hand over her mouth, trying to hide her laughing smile. When either had been in before, they'd sat alone, although Bahorel's attractive personality had always been dragging people over. She thought of the red-haired man as a kind of foreign wind that settled in, making you want to explore and enjoy; though, to most, he simply came off as reserved. Possibly rude. Though complete opposites- or so it seemed, she'd never seen Feuilly joking around before- they were both very magnetic. 

"So, that's it for both of you? Nothing has... changed?" Drink orders, or personal updates? Eh. She thought she could give it a chance. 

They realized what she was doing. 

Feuilly's eyes, who never missed anything, caught hers sharply. "Yes. That's it, thank--" 

"We met at a bar last night." 

 _Bahorel._  Feuilly just sighed and dramatically, exhaustedly, lay his arms and head across the table. "And we have totally different levels of comfort with other people, obviously," he mumbled from his faceplant in the laminate countertop. This actually got a laugh out of both the waitress and Bahorel, furthering the path of his discomfort. 

"Well," announced the waitress, with no small amount of amusement in her voice, "I'm going to go get those coffees. Have fun, you two! No fighting inside!" 

Feuilly peeked his eyes up from their place on the table, trying to see through the red curls that were growing too long. "You suck. And your coffee probably sucks, too." 

"Hey, now! My coffee tastes delicious. Only the soulless can drink black coffee." 

"Well, then, call me soulless! There will be no apologies or excuses for my drinking the good shit." 

"You going to move your hands out of the way of where my food is gonna be? Your hair, too--it's gonna be all over the table!" Bahorel teased. 

He rolled his eyes, thinking how he actually probably did look pretty damn ridiculous. Dragging himself back up into a proper-for-public sitting position, he caught Bahorel eyeing his arms. "What?" 

"I said sit up, not move your arms like fifty feet away." 

"No, actually, you said get your hands out of my food space. And.. huh?" _He doesn't want me to move?_  

"Well, then, fine! Correct me!" Bahorel was now being the dramatic one, huffing and looking away. 

"Oh, shut up. Why were you looking at my arms, though?" 

Bahorel turned back, fixing him with his warm eyes. "I like your tattoos, and your freckles. I was just looking." 

Feuilly stammered; he didn't know how to respond to compliments. Compliments from attractive people, at that! Conveniently for him, the waitress returned then with the coffee--one considerably lighter in color than the other. 

"Thank you, Daniela. I will now prove to Feuilly, here, how much better this coffee is than his." _Daniela?_ Feuilly asked himself. He had never even thought to ask her name. 

She- Daniela- smiled sweetly at the two of them. "Okay, sir. You can do your best to try. But every day he's come in here this month, it's been black." 

Feuilly felt very stupid then. She obviously knew his name from checks and things, but he'd never even asked hers! "Um, miss, I'm sorry!" He stuttered out. 

"For what? You've got nothing to be sorry for!" 

"Uh, well, I never asked your name. And that's rude, I mean, I come in here all the time--" 

"No need! So many people never bother, truly being rude. I just don't think it's in your nature to form bonds with people. Although..." She raised her eyebrows at the two of them. 

"I- no- we're not, uh-" The other two, with their similar dark, pulled back hair, couldn't help but laugh at him. 

"We didn't sleep together." Bahorel clarified, still laughing. 

Although blanching at Bahorel's bluntness, Feuilly breathed out, "Thank you. That." _Jesus._ "And thank you for the coffee." 

"Yes, thank you!" Said the man across the table, cheerily. 

Daniela said her 'you're welcome', took the pair's breakfast order- pancakes for the child, and bacon, eggs, and toast for the "old man"- and returned to the kitchen. 

"I'm sure she didn't think that!" Feuilly whisper-shouted at Bahorel. 

"Oh, hush, of course she did! She knows I'm gay, and you're getting awfully embarrassed, so. It's the obvious conclusion," Bahorel replied, with eyebrows raised. 

"No it's not!" 

"Now is it really that horrible for her to think we're together? Reaaaally?" _  
_

"Stop the big ol' puppy dog eyes, Bahorel. They don't work on me. But no, it's not. But we're not. So, yes."

"You know, you should really should work on your talking skills sometime." Feuilly set his face in stony annoyance at that one. 

"Yeah, yeah, okay. I guess I'll have to, since I'll have to be talking to you this whole damn trip..." He wasn't serious--he couldn't be, not with Bahorel. 

Bahorel replied with all of the mock-earnestness he could gather. "Yes. You will. So get ready." 

"Is that a threat? You don't want to threaten me!" Feuilly replied, with a mischievous spark in his eye. 

The rest of the breakfast continued on like this, with Feuilly and Bahorel messing with each other. Neither let anything slip, and it was absolutely great to the two of them. By the time Daniela brought them the check, they were both smiling so wide she thought they just might break. Actually, she thought Feuilly _was_ broken--his typical self, anyway! 

Their mood was put on hold by the check, which they split. Feuilly sat back, sighing out the last laugh. He looked out the window, admiring the soft morning light and the trees that bathed in it. He would miss this booth, this view, Daniela, the diner... this morning. 

"I love the light, in the mornings," he told Bahorel. 

Bahorel turned to gaze where Feuilly had been watching, and agreed. "It's pretty damn nice, huh? I've gotta say, this whole morning has been nice. Better than at home, anyway. There it's just myself. I've got a few friends who live on my floor, but they all wake up late. I like my 7 a.m.'s." 

Feuilly chuckled. "Yeah. I try to tell myself I never get lonely, but it definitely happens. It's been a long time on my own, though, so normally I'm alright." 

They stood up to leave, Bahorel behind Feuilly. The taller man stayed close, and said something just loud enough for Feuilly to hear: "For a while- for this trip- you've got me, Feuilly." 

* * *

 

The two climbed back into the Greenbrier; Feuilly, gracefully, and Bahorel hitting his head on the door frame. 

"Ah, shit, man! Fuck! Why didn't you warn me?!" 

"Why didn't you look before you got into the bus?" 

This earned Feuilly a glare from Bahorel, and he erupted into laughs. _Well, this is role-reversal_ , he chuckled to himself. 

"OKAY, okay! Back to seriousness." He looked like a giant, grumpy, teddy bear. 

"You? Serious? I'm not letting this feeling go!" Feuilly was still laughing. 

"I am going to punch you right now if you do not stop." 

Feigning fear, Feuilly replied, "Oh, dear! Bahorel! Please don't do that!" Nonetheless, he stopped. "Back to seriousness. Yes. Okay, now, I've got maps that cover the entirety of the United States, but those require planning and map-reading skills. Neither of which, I don't think, you'll be very good at. I normally just follow the roads when I'm leaving a place. So, unless you've got a smart phone, then we're winging it all the way to Seattle." 

Bahorel, realizing that all of that was said while trying to hide a laugh, made his voice intentionally rude for his reply. "Well, mister, we would be all set, except I let my phone die. Didn't bring the charger. Remember, I was trying to avoid the wrath of my friend??" 

That is precisely how Bahorel ended up with a huge, extremely ~~(overly)~~ detailed map in his hands, with Feuilly yelling at him from the driver's seat. 

"JUST GET ME BACK TO THE MAJOR HIGHWAY, THE ONE THAT PASSES THROUGH DENVER, AND I'LL BE FUCKING FINE FOR A WHILE! GET ME TO FUCKING DENVER, BAHOREL!" 

* * *

Bahorel was freaking out. _How the fuck do I navigate a map?!_  He was screaming inside. Not outside--that was, apparently, Feuilly's job. Where had their morning gone? That had been fucking awesome. Hopefully- if he could get them to _fucking Denver_ \- he would get his content morning company back. 

"I am trying. I'm trying. It's only almost 9 a.m., it's okay, Feuilly!" 

"BAHOREL." 

 _Jesus christ_ , Bahorel thought. _We need to get to Denver or I am going to die._  

He sought for something to break Feuilly's frustration... and what he went with he knew would probably only further it. But it was funny. "So, Feuilly, you have any other clothes besides t-shirts, plaid flannels, and jeans?" 

He could practically feel the holes being burned through his skull by hazel eyes. It was still funny. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! But when you get to Denver, will you be nice again?" 

"YES." 

"So _this_ is why you travel alone." 

Feuilly managed to reach over and slug him on the arm, while still staying perfectly in his lane, for that comment. Bahorel looked up  and out the window. _Yes, yes, yes_ , he said silently, before returning his attention to the little shit of a map he was supposed to be deciphering. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually pretty happy with where this chapter has gone! I'm still getting into the swing of writing fanfiction--it's a different feel than what I normally write. I will get started on writing the next chapter tonight, so that y'all won't have to wait two weeks for the next one! Hope y'all enjoy. If you've got any suggestions, please leave a comment.   
> Also, drop by my tumblr! it's lesmegarables.tumblr.com.   
> thanks again,   
> megan.


	4. Nights of Nowhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The initiation of their trip from Colorado to Seattle started out less than perfect... less than even alright, actually. However, as the road stretches out into something Feuilly somewhat knows, both he and Bahorel settle into comfortable roads and conversations that can change everything they both know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello! If all goes as planned while I'm writing this chapter, then it'll be the last before some new characters are introduced... Hopefully y'all are excited! I am. Also, a warning for this chapter--there is lots of dialogue. I think y'all will definitely like where this one goes.
> 
> ALSO: check out this drawing! it's /kinda/ first chapter babies and I LOVE it! http://unhooking-the-stars.tumblr.com/post/89843153102/i-was-just-kind-of-doodling-and-then-i-was  
> thank you, unhooking-the-stars!

_The problem with Colorado_ , Feuilly mused, _was that there was an endless landscape of the **same exact image.**_  

When he stated this observation out loud to Bahorel, who was staring out the window, the man turned his awed brown eyes at Feuilly. 

"Are you kidding me? It's _gorgeous_ out here, Feuilly." His voice, which wasn't soft or melodic by any means, was quiet and strangely affected. 

Feuilly raised his eyebrows. "You're ridiculous, Bahorel--it all looks identical. Mountains, trees, scraggly hills. Seen it before, I'll see it again." Of course, Feuilly appreciated it all, the nature. But he'd been through and about the state many times, and didn't understand the other man's fascination. 

Bahorel exhaled, groaning at Feuilly's attitude. "You know, I hadn't been out of the Pacific Northwest until last week. Let me enjoy this beautiful country of freedom I am now getting to see." 

"Beautiful country of freedom? Bahorel, you're gay. You can't even get married here. This shit isn't free." 

_"Let me enjoy it!"_

This banter was what the majority of the ride had been, in Colorado anyway. And, of course, past Denver--they had indeed gotten through that checkpoint (with minimal bruising). Once Feuilly had gotten them to and through the metropolis, they were situated on an interstate that would carry them almost straight through to Seattle--all 1,331 miles. He had estimated the trip would take about 22 hours, and they'd have to stop and rest sometime. Bahorel, who had apparently never been on a road trip before, was astounded by the time. Feuilly was just nervous about the fact that he'd have to share his bus with someone- no matter how favorable Bahorel seemed to be- for probably two more days. _What if he has really shitty personal hygiene, or something?_  He wouldn't admit it, but Feuilly kept his ginger curls in check and his freckled face spotless, at all times. Despite the worrying done on both of their parts, they'd grown much more relaxed with one another. First names used more often, casual jokes that didn't have the hint of awkwardness, and the mentioning of tougher topics. 

Feuilly didn't mind the dark haired man on his right side, not at all, not according to what he'd seen of him. 

* * *

 

On the evening of their first day, Bahorel brought up something that hadn't even crossed Feuilly's mind. They had just stopped for dinner and gasoline, and were crossing the state line from Wyoming to Utah. Before that point, the lonesome traveler had been extremely content with his newfound company, tossing thoughts back and forth with the setting sun pouring through the windshield. However, the new topic thrown out to the quiet air unsettled him greatly. It was something he hadn't considered for years; not since he was in college. _And, I mean, we have definitely grown closer, but this? Yes, I would, but... I am who I am._

"After I get home, after you take me home, where will you go?" This was said with more quiet, more concern, than had ever been afforded in speech to Feuilly. Bahorel cast a quick glance his way, and continued. "You've been going at this leaving thing for what, five, six years? It's too long. You deserve stability, in your life and in that surprising mind of yours. You can find happiness in a home. I'm sorry, but you can't find what you need in your endless driving and sad folk songs. It sounds crazy, because I've only known you for twenty four hours now- maybe- but my apartment is half vacant. And, Feuilly, I don't want you to go. To go away, to go on, whatever. I don't want you to go." Feuilly couldn't look at him, the bronzed man whose skin tone he could now attribute to Bahorel being Turkish and Arabic, with his steady dark eyes and messy hair escaping his hair tie. 

He pulled over into an almost-empty gas station lot and dropped his hands off the steering wheel, silent. He had thousands of thoughts racing through his brain, and he was sure Bahorel could see them playing across his clouded eyes. _He cares about me. No one has given a shit since high school, not really. But staying somewhere? Me? I can't, that's impossible, it doesn't work, not for me. Never has it worked. It leads to shit, and not to mention, I'm just a traveler, a wanderer. I don't stay put; a month in Colorado was pushing it. And I don't get close to people... But him. It's only been a day- for fuck's sake, ONE day!- and I trust him. He's cool to be around, more than 'cool'. He's great, he is. The laugh. Jesus christ, Feuilly, what the fuck are you thinking? You can't stay in Seattle, with him, with a stranger. He's just a stranger that you're taking home. That you're driving over a thousand miles for. A really fucking great person._

_A stranger. He won't mean a thing in a year. A stranger. You don't know him, not at all. It doesn't matter; the things he's told you today, and you've told him... they don't matter. No._

There were crystalline tears threatening to spill from the corner of Feuilly's eyes. Nothing affected him like a sign to come home, a sign of welcoming and love. It terrified him, whether it be a town that resembled his original or something as simple as an embrace between a father and his son. It was the connections--they were his weakness, and for years, he'd tried to trick himself into believing that his lack of connections was his strength. He knew he'd only hurt himself over the course of the last five years, but still, there was no way in hell he could picture himself content to "settle down". The Greenbrier was his only home, he'd decided that a long time ago, and that was that. 

Needless to say, a few words escaped the thin line of his mouth that were traitorous to everything Feuilly had convinced himself of. 

"What's waiting for me there?" He whispered, his eyes still cast downward. The last tiny peek of evening light poured through the window's glass and illuminated his eyelashes, setting them ablaze and intensifying the distressed silence. He tried not to pay attention to how he could see the way Bahorel's thick eyebrows raised slightly, as if in surprise, out of the corner of his eye.

Even if the proposer had seemed a bit shocked by Feuilly's response, his voice was completely steady and _sure_ when he said his next words. "A home- a real place to stay. And friends; these people that I love and I know you will, too. Most importantly? Happiness. Contentedness. Comfort, Feuilly." Bahorel paused before continuing. "You can't tell me you don't want those things." 

Feuilly had tiny droplets falling from his eyes now, onto his worn-out jeans. He tilted his head back, and shut his eyes against the pain and the possibility. 

"I haven't lived in a steady place since college, Bahorel, and before that it was the town where I was born. I feel like settling is not who I am, not at all, and it's terrifying. It scares me more than anything." 

"Feuilly, living a life with "constants" may not be who you are, or who you think you are, but from what I have seen of you it's what you need. You aren't happy, you're anxious, and you're alone. People are not meant to be such things. Especially people as great as you." The larger man's voice was laced through with compassion, a tone that no one had cared enough to give Feuilly in far too long. 

At this, he let his head fall back to a resting position, tilted to the right, and opened his eyes to see Bahorel staring at him with a soft intensity. Feuilly let himself cry, now, wholly. He was not a loud crier, he'd managed that issue in his confused high school years; however, there was a steady pattern of tears running across the freckles on his cheeks. His lip was trembling, so much so that he couldn't even begin to speak. Just as he went to wipe the moisture from his face, a pair of dark hands grasped his own. In that simple gesture, there existed years of care and loving compacted into a single day. 

Feuilly let himself be comforted, or allowed Bahorel's attempt--it was working. "Okay." He couldn't manage more than a whisper, but it was enough. "I guess you knew that, though." he let a chuckle escape, mostly directed at himself and his crying. 

A bright smile spread across the other man's face, in the now-dark. "You don't have to laugh at yourself, you know. That's running away from emotion; I thought we just settled that you won't be doing that anymore," Bahorel said, nearly as softly as Feuilly had just spoken. 

His lips slid up at the sides, in a wistful sort of smile. He more than appreciated Bahorel's... his everything. "Thank you. More than you know, thank you."

They were still holding hands, and Feuilly then remembered. Everything that had passed between the two in the past ten minutes was extreme for him, and the extended contact was intimidating. Blinking, he moved to get up from his seat and dropped his hand from Bahorel's. 

"Uh, I have to go to the bathroom. Be back in a minute," awkwardly mumbling, he stumbled over a pair of long, muscular legs while attempting to reach the door. Bahorel's face was a bit shocked, but mostly understanding--he was beginning to know how Feuilly worked, inside his mind of mishaps. And, even though the private man wasn't comfortable with much in the way of physical, knowing that someone cared enough to work him out comforted him. 

As soon as Feuilly was out of the Greenbrier, he huffed a sigh of exasperation and sped across the lot into the little store in the middle of nowhere. _Oh, my god,_ he thought. _I'm going into something, and I have no clue what it is, really, and I'm terrified, but I am exuberant. I am so happy. Of course I don't know how the fuck to show that, but I am. And **Bahorel**. Jesus. _ He did what he'd set out to do- honestly, he really did have to pee- bought two beers, and walked back out to his bus. He opened the door, and Bahorel wasn't inside. _He probably just went to walk around,_ Feuilly guessed. He reached in and set the beers in the cup holder, then walked down to the end of the bus and leaned against the cool metal side. He let his eyelids fall closed, the chill of the bus able to be felt through his shirt. Nights like these were his favorite, when the air was on the verge of cold and the only noise was that of a slight wind rustling the landscape. He could be anywhere, and he would still love those nights. His state of relaxation was interrupted not even two minutes later, when a strong, solid arm curled around his own, which was tucked into his jeans pocket. 

"Huh?" Feuilly gasped, startled. He opened his eyes to see Bahorel on his left, mirroring his posture against the bus. 

"On your left," Bahorel replied, but the joke was lost on Feuilly. He didn't exactly understand movie references--even the _best_ ones, according to superhero buff Bahorel. His hair was completely taken down from its little bun now, and Feuilly couldn't help but admire it. His hair fell messily around his face, wavy and dark, making his tanned face even more lighthearted and appealing. Maybe others looked at Bahorel and saw a huge man, intimidating with his muscular build and dark features, but Feuilly couldn't at all. He saw hope and goodness and laughter and, yeah; maybe a good fistfight. But good things. 

As if Bahorel was thinking along the same lines as Feuilly- and he was, with Feuilly's intriguing way of living and thinking and loving and his adorable ginger curls that were kept short at the back and his always-exploring eyes and endless freckles- he moved to stand in front of the shorter man. The height difference between the two wasn't huge, but seemed exaggerated by Bahorel's broadness even though Feuilly was brawny himself. There was hardly a pause before Bahorel leaned in to close the gap between them, so it was not filled with night sky but with the quiet pressing of lips against one another. It was an act that could have landed them in jail only fifty or so years ago, and still could in places around the world--and all fears of such hatred were forgotten in the seemingly-extended moment that passed. The kiss wasn't much, not by an observer's standards. Slow, and simple, and short, not lasting more than ten seconds. But to anyone who knew either of the two men, it would have been obvious the supreme amount of inspiration and admiration that the kiss represented. There was unprecedented amounts of importance put forth by both Feuilly and Bahorel, and they shone. 

Feuilly put his hand on Bahorel's chest, pushing him back, just slightly. It wasn't really enough for either of them, but it was right. Awe-inspiringly so. They both had goofy smiles on their faces, only furthering their image of undoubtable happiness. A dark pink blush spread across Feuilly's pale cheeks as he watched the warm eyes opposite him, bright enough to be seen in the darkness, the only light being a far-off light pole. Bahorel snickered, playfully, and kissed his blushing cheeks. Feuilly dipped his head in embarrassment, resulting in tickling the other man's skin with his hair. Both laughed, then, at each other and themselves and everything. It wasn't a mocking laugh--just happy. Very, very happy.

The laughing was only furthered when Bahorel spoke next. "You know how earlier you asked me what's waiting for you in Seattle? Well, I think we've got that settled... the real question is this: How many crazy people will be waiting to jump me for my random-ass disappearing stunt?!" 

"I don't know! You haven't talked about your "crazy" friends! I'm not mad about that stunt, though. I'd say I'm pretty goddamn thankful." 

"Yeah? Are you? I can't really tell, you know, but I personally am not regretting it..." 

"Well, that's positive. I'm not something to be regretted. Ask anyone." 

"Anyone? I thought you didn't get close to anyone?" 

"Okay, true. Then you can't ask a single soul. Sorry. Glad you've already decided." 

The two men were cracking themselves up with their back-and-forth, both feeling as if they were flying on the best sort of emotions. They moved to climb back into the Greenbrier, hand in hand, Feuilly leading. 

"You think we're alright to leave the bus here tonight? The girl working was closing up when I ran in, I mean, if we take off at sunrise tomorrow, they won't care, right?" Feuilly was a bit concerned--he'd only made the mistake of parking without permission right after college. He had had to be creative with his sleeping arrangements for a few nights after that incident. 

"Don't worry about it, Feuilly. It'll be fine. No stress tonight, okay?" Bahorel comforted him. "Your Greenbrier will be safe." 

"Hey, now. No mocking. I've been stranded in highly questionable apartments before because of this." 

"Whatever you say, then! Come on, it's ten. If we're getting up at what, seven?, then we need sleep. Or, I do. I'm sure you don't, with your weird ass self." 

"Weird ass? No. I've got a nice ass." 

"Jesus! Feuilly! I'd expect myself to say that, not you!" 

"About my ass?" 

"No, about mine!" 

"So, my ass isn't nice? Cause it is." 

"No, wait, your ass too!" 

"That's what I thought." The teasing stopped there, when Feuilly ducked into the back of the bus. "Bahorel?" 

He answered back as he followed a flannel-shirt-clad Feuilly to where he was standing by his bed. "Yeah, what?" 

"Well, I know that yesterday we both slept fully clothed and all, but I never do that, and I really don't think we need to, I mean--" 

"You're rambling. But no, it's fine, neither do I! I'm not a pajama pants wearer though, but I'm boxers. Do you care?" 

"We just kissed a few minutes ago. No, I don't fucking care. But I am." 

"Huh?" Bahorel inquired, but quickly realized what Feuilly meant as he pulled off his button up, white t-shirt, and jeans... only to replace this clothes with pants of what looked like the exact same material as his flannel. Feuilly felt exposed, standing so near to Bahorel with nothing covering his upper half. He was free to see Feuilly's pale skin that hardly saw sunlight, his freckles that covered his arms and shoulders, the definition of muscles, the tattoos that wound around his body and each other. There were scars, too, with a wide range of backstories--from the worst moments of his early life to injuries at work. The worst, a jagged thing across his side which Bahorel's eyes stuck on longer than anything else, was from a horrible car accident in college. It only happened because of drugs and stupidity, and left him hospitalized for over three weeks. The colorful tattoos dragged his attention away, and Feuilly allowed him to observe. He had already let him into his life this far, he wanted to share with him this. 

"They're all beautiful. Tattoos, scars, freckles, everything." Bahorel looked amazed at what Feuilly had managed to accumulate across his torso over his twenty five years. 

"Well, thanks. No one has really seen them all. There've definitely been guys who have seen what there is to see, but never cared enough to look." 

The tone in Feuilly's voice was hazardous, a near-crossing into guarded territory. Bahorel accepted it, there were always things people didn't want to talk about. He guessed that Feuilly had done lots of things- or people- for falsities, just because he knew there would be no consequence. No connection. "You know, I can best many people with my painted, sculpted upper half, but not you. You've got me on tattoos, definitely. Muscles, no, but you can't have it all..." Bahorel pulled off his shirt, and Feuilly's eyes widened. He took a step forward, tracing an inky pattern that resembled a storm, if you could recreate the roiling of a storm, that extended from Bahorel's left elbow, up his arm, and across a part of his chest. 

"It's amazing," he admired, breathlessly. "How can someone even tattoo that?" 

Bahorel chuckled, trying to downplay the complimentary speech and touch of the man that he thought much more impressive than himself. Feuilly stepped away, realizing how close he was to him--and his _actually sculpted_ abs and arm muscles. He turned to make up his bed, as he'd forgotten it that morning. Bahorel took off his shoes and jeans, stripping to exactly what he said he preferred to sleep in. Feuilly tried not to stare. The nearly-naked man reached to grab his pillow off his seat from the previous night, to fluff it out. Twisting slightly, Feuilly grabbed it out of his hands. 

"Not this again? We really do need sleep." 

"I know we do," Feuilly replied acutely, as he robotically set the pillow down next to his on the mattress-bed. He wasn't really the best at hinting at things, but he got the point across. "You don't have to sleep in a chair again. The bed is more comfortable." 

"Your extra-long twin sized mattress? Yours?" Bahorel wasn't opposed to the idea, but it made him a little nervous. He really, really liked him and-- 

"Yes." Feuilly's jaw tightened. They stood there, staring at one another, Feuilly petrified and Bahorel frozen with one hand in the air, pointing at the bed. 

"Yes." Bahorel couldn't get anything else to come out of his mouth. He took a deep breath, and instead of an exhale came a HUGE burst of laughter. "Yes!" 

The guffawing infected Feuilly, and he was doubled over, laying across the bed, dying with hysteria. He rolled over to the side closest to the wall of the bus as Bahorel sat down next to him, watching the other man who was now covered by shadows... and boxers. Only boxers. _Get over it, Feuilly!_  

Bahorel gazed down at the shirtless man next to him, who looked more like an innocent teenager in the dim light, like the boy he could've been once. But Bahorel didn't know that boy. Maybe someone else had looked at him like this once, maybe he hadn't realized it. He wanted to make sure Feuilly knew it, this time. He needed to. What he felt for Feuilly was something he couldn't even begin to comprehend, and that feeling is what led him to fall against the pillow next to Feuilly's for the first time. Feuilly knew that he would not allow this night to be the last time he watched Bahorel lie down next to him, facing him, caressing each other with their eyes. He reached across the minute gap between them, and pulled the other perfectly content man against himself. It was bare skin and entangled legs and dark waves and red curls messing together, and a tiny crack of white teeth before the sleepy press of lips. And that was all either of them needed for comfort, for that night. For sleep and for _rest_ , the resting of hearts and souls. Feuilly fell asleep with his nose resting against Bahorel's chin, and the larger man was pulled under not a minute later. 

As they slept, they dreamed of lost times, hopes, and loves. They dreamed of times not yet passed, new hopes, a kind of love that seemed better than anything either of them knew. Faults and failures crossed their minds, successes and strengths, and through everything, each other. There was everything in the other, and the other was in everything. The moon rose higher and fell way to the coming morning, oblivious to these two people- resistant by nature- falling in love, unconsciously, as it traced its path across the open sky. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! What did you all think?! I'm pretty excited, and I wrote it all! By the way, the entirety of my recent search history is "______ synonym". I love to write, but it gets difficult when your characters like to laugh and smile a lot. Or do anything... ha! Next chapter, they will make it to Seattle. I promise. And the Greenbrier will not be impounded; though, that might make for an amusing fight.  
> ...But we don't need to fight! No fighting between my characters. Not seriously. (I say that now...)  
> I'll stop going on, here--it's late, and I should be sleeping. You should not be. Stay up and read.  
> Love you all,  
> et merci beaucoup.


	5. Settlement Woes (and Wars)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final day of Feuilly and Bahorel's driving. What they think of it, what they say, and what is actually waiting for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I approve of this chapter! I think you all will, as well. A bit of character development, if not awkwardness--Feuilly is scared, okay? Also... the ending. Ha! 
> 
> Enjoy, with love!

Feuilly woke up in the same fashion he had the previous morning, albeit a tiny bit hotter. When the sun rose, he did as well. The curtains of the Greenbrier had been neglected the previous evening and were still thrown wide open, welcoming the morning light. In the past, Feuilly had been the type to drink enough to forget whatever he was going to do that night. Nothing was ever really important, so what did he care? That morning, however, he was thankful for the lack of anything more than a single beer in his system. He remembered it all- so much, said and done with so little. The kiss. The shirtless man. Laughing and loving ( _I can't say that, no_ ) and feeling genuinely happy. Sharing a bed, just sleeping beside someone that he actually wanted to sleep beside.

He was lying on his back, but felt Bahorel curled up beside him. He raised his hand, watching the way the pale, almost dream-like sun coated his skin. He looked as if he were bathing in some sort of sickly sweet candy; his skin shining and his spattering of freckles drenched in a natural color. This is why I need to find a way to paint again, Feuilly lazily thought to himself, There has to be a way to convey, through brush and paint, somewhat of the feeling I've got right now. Drenched in what is the morning, with no true rush to go anywhere, and a man of so much newfound importance asleep beside me. He loved mornings. He had said it before (to himself, old friends, old family...) and would say it again, to any one who shared them with him. Today- and hopefully, for many more "today's"- it would be Bahorel.

He refused to wake up Bahorel, mostly for the way that the man looked as if he were at complete calm with the world. There was still a hint of a smile on his face, although, he'd hardly seen a time when there hadn't been. For the man who is always so intense, this is a beautiful change.. But he is all the time. Since the moment I met him, I don't think I have disapproved of a single emotion or appearance. Feuilly still considered it wishful thinking, however; he had always been alone. This new person was as intimidating as he was amazing. Feuilly looked on as Bahorel lay there sleeping, tanned skin awash in the early morning yellows and oranges and he could almost convince himself that every single thing would work out alright. Possibly, even, in his greater favor.

If the more-positive of the two had been awake, he would have told him that Seattle would love him, he would love Seattle, and Washington in its whole (people, places, and pursuits) would inspire him to do great things and love great people.

He wasn't awake, though, so Feuilly settled for telling himself these things in a particular familiar voice of comfort--a voice that he never wanted to stop hearing.

Feuilly relaxed there a few minutes more, watching the world wake up outside of his window. The shadows that existed only in the A.M. hours, the lone man he saw inside the gas station, getting a cup of coffee. He twirled a piece of his hair between his fingers, reminding himself of its recent neglect in the matter of keeping it trimmed. All the while, he kept a hand connected to the body of the sleeping person beside him. His long fingers, callused with the labour of his ever-changing jobs, traced along the soft skin of Bahorel's torso, playing with the band of his shorts, roaming. It was a while before he awoke, and he surprised his early riser when he did. The backside of a ginger-haired skull was the first thing to grace Bahorel's eyes, and joy spread across him the same way it had the night before. When he felt the fingers running across his bare skin, he felt instantly electrified. The hazel eyes didn't turn around to meet his own dark ones, however, so he assumed Feuilly hadn't realized he was awake... Taking advantage of this, he slowly shifted closer to him, and planted a tiny kiss on the base of his neck, where pale skin met fiery curls. He jumped, and the noise that came out of Bahorel's mouth in response was the groggiest, silliest, most attractive chuckle Feuilly had ever had the pleasure of hearing.

As Feuilly turned over to face the man beside him, Bahorel said a simple good morning to him, while admiring a pair of already-alert eyes, grouped wonderfully with a tiny smile and dancing freckles. 

"And to you, too," Feuilly replied, searching the other man's tired, pleasure-filled face.

"Already, it is. My favorite way to wake up in quite some time."

Feuilly broke into a wider grin, eyes crinkling at the edges. "Affirmative." He squished in closer, pressing his lips against Bahorel's nose. Before Feuilly could pull away, Bahorel stuck his chin out higher in order to reach the other man. He smiled into the kiss, obviously not minding whatsoever. "You know, we really do need to get going, Bahorel..."

"Seattle will still be there," he teased. "And you don't exactly look like you mind this delay..."

Feuilly smacked him lightly on the shoulder, his hand relaxing there after it's initial contact. He rubbed circles on the muscular, tanned skin so near to him. "You could say that... Even though you're just some random stranger who happened to make it into my bed." Bahorel may have been the tease between the two of them, but Feuilly definitely had it in him as well.

A wide, white flash of teeth shone at him, and Feuilly tried his hardest to keep his eyebrows raised and face passive. This facade was broken, however, when his bed-sharer leaned in once again and kissed him. It lasted longer, sweet and unfaltering; Bahorel pulled away too soon for both of their tastes, but he was proving a point--"I have the feeling you don't partake in that sort of behavior with many 'strangers'."

Feuilly furrowed his ginger brows at that, contorting his face into the most ridiculous picture of offense he could manage. "OH! Oh, no, Bahorel. We were having a perfectly content morning here and you just had to go and fuck with it!" He harrumphed, conveying his false irritation flawlessly. To follow the words, he flipped over on his side dramatically.

Refusing to give in to the ridiculousness Feuilly was putting on because of his little (hilarious) joke, Bahorel replied almost as dramatically as Feuilly had. "Oh, fiiiine then. Everything is my fault, and now you're hurt... I guess I'll just leave, then," he drew out his words as he slowly rolled out of bed. He couldn't stand up fully in the bus, though, so the effect of his standing over Feuilly ended up being less intimidating and more circus-show, all big-man-small-space.

"Huh? No!" Feuilly howled after him, turning back to face the hunched-over man with wide, deer eyes. His completely irrational fear- which really just stemmed from the fact that he wasn't too attuned to human behavior- was broken when he saw Bahorel awkwardly standing over him. At this, he simply laughed and stuck his arms out to grab his shirt and pull him down on top of himself. 

"Thought you wanted to head out as soon as possible?" Bahorel joked, falling lightly onto the slightly smaller man. Feuilly kissed him quickly, not immediately replying.

"As long as you don't scare me like that. No leaving. Only I am allowed to do that," Feuilly said, with a certain amount of actual seriousness intertwined in his tone. "Also, you have to drive for a while." 

"I," Bahorel began, hand pressed against his chest as he sat up, "get to _drive_? Your Greenbrier?"

"Yes. Now don't make me question it. If you hurt the Greenbrier, you hurt me. And then you will be stranded nowhere NEAR Seattle."

Feuilly grabbed the other man's hand, using it to sit up next to him. They sat there, in that position, for a small minute. Hand in hand, watching each other. Accustoming themselves.

Feuilly crawled across Bahorel, to the aisle. He looked back at him, pulling on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt advertising a folk band unknown to Bahorel. What Feuilly wore to cover his body wasn't what interested him, though--it was the smile that was playing across his lips, a tiny feature out of so many, that fascinated him. Bahorel's smiles were everywhere, from his face to forgotten poems written by close friends. Feuilly's were more rare, and at that moment it was realized by the other how special they were. How incredibly lucky he was to be the recipient of the nearly-endless stream of them. How dazzling they were, especially now, after their shared night, the affects of which were still not completely brought to light.

* * *

Before either of them could function enough to drive (Bahorel was still gloating about how Feuilly was going to allow him to drive at least part of the way), both agreed that a large cup of coffee was in order... Even if their only option was a crappy travel mug from the gas station they were still parked at. When they walked in, they tried their hardest to be silent--neither wanted to draw attention to the fact that they were the owner and passenger of the bus that illegally parked overnight in that same lot. They filled their cups to full- Feuilly still making a deal over how Bahorel liked his with "basically a whole gallon of creamer and sugar"- and made their way to the cashier. Unfortunately for the trespassers, the checkout girl was the same one from the night previous. Feuilly's face immediately reddened, and he turned to Bahorel to try and convey the urgency he felt.

"She- uh- last night- she saw me-!" He stammered out, whispering up at the man behind him. He quieted Feuilly with a glance downward, a sharp reminder that _No, his Greenbrier was not going to be taken from him._

"Hello!" The girl cheerily called out, making the nerve-wracked man spin back around to face her. "Oh, I saw you last night! Who's this, your friend?"

He fumbled for words, Bahorel pressing his lips together behind him to avoid laughing. "Uh- um, yes?" It sounded more like a question than an actual response. The more collected of the two thwacked him not-so-discreetly on the back, and Feuilly continued, slightly less awkward. "Yeah. I came in here last night, for beer." The girl didn't respond, and he only stared at her before remembering what should be said: "Oh, and good morning, ma'am."

Her face relaxed from judgmental to open and friendly, laughing a bit. "Thank you for your manners, sir, but I'm only seventeen. No need to call me ma'am," rolling her eyes, she continued. "Although, I can tell you're southern. You must just have the "Southern Hospitality" thing going on--"

"Believe me, he really doesn't," Bahorel interrupted.

Feuilly cast a sharp glance his way, and the girl tacked on, "You still haven't introduced me to your friend, Mr. Nice Guy. Or, apparently, Mr. Not-so-nice."

The redhead was obviously not in his zone, being conversed with A), so early in the morning, and B), by a complete and total stranger. Not that she thought she was one. Or that it was early. _How is she even talking so much, right now?_ The other was completely soaking this up, thinking it was hilarious. Later, he would most definitely be reprimanded for thinking lightly of Feuilly's total discomfort around people.

"My friend?" Feuilly asked, his face still full of confusion.

"She means me," Bahorel said easily, as he strode forward to stand next to him at the counter. Throwing his hand up in a slight, casual wave, he introduced himself. "I'm Bahorel. I know, funny name. This, here, is Feuilly. I met him in Colorado and he is driving me back home to Seattle. He's not a bad guy, no, but if you want to talk, I'm the one to come to!"

"Well, nice to meet you! And to have your actual name, Feuilly. It's nice to see someone friendly around here. I normally only see the same few faces, along with the typically dirty truckers. You both seem clean cut, if not a bit questionable."

"Questionable? How so?" Bahorel was amused by this girl's chatter. Feuilly was staring on in amazement (and question) at the man's easy comfort.

She laughed, "Well! You're both very tall, for one. And muscular. You just parked the bus outside and stayed the night," at Feuilly's terror-filled gaze, she added "No! You're not in trouble, I'm really the only one around here. But anyway. You both seem just a little bit different."

"Well, I may be up for a good conversation to wake me up, but I don't tell all my secrets. Neither does he, here, but I'm warming him up."

"I'll say," added Feuilly, his first actual contribution to the talking. They both laughed at him, and he tried to take that as a sign to ease up.

"I will give up one thing, though--but first, you've got to tell me something." Bahorel continued.

"Yes?"

"Opinion on queer rights."

Her faced flashed something, and Feuilly turned away. _What's he even getting at? Jesus._ "Definitely. Equal rights, treatment, media coverage, everything."

"Okay, then here's this: He's not my friend." Feuilly's hazel eyes widened, gaping at Bahorel as the cashier looked between the two.

"Oh!" At this point, Feuilly had his face between his hands, trying to erase what the other man had just said.

" _DidyoujustfuckingsaythatBahorelyoucan'tjustgoaroundtellingrandompeoplethatwekissedand_ \--"

He laughed, putting a hand on Feuilly's shoulder. "Relax, okay? It's a first step for you."

"Toward what?!" He replied, incredulously.

"Toward opening up! See, it's easy. And there is no harm done." Bahorel was looking at him with a mixture of adoration and amusement, which Feuilly didn't know how to receive. So he glared back.

The girl was smiling at the pair, with a sort of longing. "Hey, at least you're out enough to say it to me." She was speaking directly to the redheaded man, now. "No one here would understand or accept me, so I keep it quiet." Feuilly understood enough of what she was going that a reply wasn't even necessary.

"Well, kid, someday you'll get whoever you want. And it'll be the best. For now, keep being a marvelous checkout girl." Bahorel said this with a certain amount of honesty in his voice, even behind his humor.

She smiled and took Feuilly's money for the coffees, still watching how the two of them interacted. "It better," was all the girl said, as she slid the change back over the counter. As they walked out, Bahorel yelled a goodbye and Feuilly silently held two fingers up to his forehead, saluting her. She returned the gesture, both wearing a wistful-yet-positive smiles.

* * *

Three hours later, Bahorel was the one driving the Greenbrier through the countless landscapes and towns of an America he didn't know existed. Anything outside of Seattle and the surrounding campgrounds and suburbs was completely new, and foreign, to him. And he was loving every minute of it; he took it all in as a child would a new, elaborate toy. He was only just beginning to understand how much he had missed over his twenty-six years by not _going_ anywhere. He did have excuses--work, money, school, general disinterest. He decided then that those things would have to change. He could work in a road trip or two... especially if the man beside him were to come along.

When Bahorel had first started driving, Feuilly had stayed extremely attentive. Bahorel complained it made him feel like he was fifteen, learning to drive all over again. ( _You really started driving at fifteen? I would've pegged you for one of those kids who was, like, eight and out stealing the car,_  Feuilly had said, leading Bahorel to admit that he was actually eleven when he learned.) Anyhow, Feuilly's excuse was that he and the Greenbrier were just "very finely attuned to one another, and she's uncomfortable with anyone else driving". Bahorel assumed it was Feuilly's problem, and not the bus'. Buses don't have feelings. It wasn't like he didn't understand, he just liked to tease. If anyone ever "borrowed" his bike- motorcycle, not bicycle, thank you- they would be pummeled. As once, someone had been. _Courfeyrac_. _He's gonna have a hell of a time with Feuilly_. The bike was his baby. After about thirty minutes of the bus-owner's initial worrying and nitpicking, he went quiet. When Bahorel turned to see what was the matter, Feuilly was dead asleep. _Well, then,_ Bahorel mused. _Guess I'm a satisfactory driver._

Between paying the utmost attention to the bus and the road in front of him, which was generally empty except for the random eighteen wheeler or traveling SUV, he took turns observing that around him. The scenery outside, which was gorgeous by his standards (even though he knew that if Feuilly were awake, he'd say it all looks the same), the sky uncluttered by buildings, and the person curled up asleep in the seat next to him. He was the most beautiful, to Bahorel, even when compared to azure skies and untouched mountain ranges. The wild grasses, dotted with animals and sparse trees, had absolutely nothing on the vast expanse of Feuilly's skin, strewn with light freckles. The blue depths of the sky did not reach the intricacy of the melded shades of his tattoos, so very visible in his short sleeves. Bahorel could see his eyes flickering under his closed eyelids, if he watched closely, and hoped whatever he was dreaming made him feel as good as Bahorel did, right then. He'd turned off the music- still folksy, but happier than it'd been the first day- as soon as the freckled man was asleep. His mom, for all she wasn't worth in the way of parenting, used to call freckles 'angel kisses'. That fit Feuilly well. He was covered with angel kisses.

Bahorel allowed his mind to wander, from exploring to Washington to Feuilly... everything. How he planned to settle Feuilly in once they were actually in Seattle. How he owed an explanation to the wrestling job he worked, and to the auto repair shop... How he'd help Feuilly find a job. Every train of thought kept finding its way to Feuilly. Finally, he gave up, and returned to watching the harmed, yet harmless, man beside him. Of course, he still tended to his driving, but there was nothing ahead except nothingness- and everything- but no obstacles. They were fine, he could multitask. He casually studied the sleeping figure, his tended-to red curls falling across his forehead, light eyelashes resting against a lighter cheek. The broad chest and shoulders, strong arms, lazily crossed across his torso. A slight sunburn across the bridge of his nose, which he hadn't noticed before. He'd chalked it up to Feuilly's apparent perpetual embarrassment at something or another, but as he looked closer, nope. It was sunburn. _Something funny in all of this, all of him,_ he thought. _Like a painting---they're all supposed to be serious, but point out some quirky feature, and they get even better._

This observation had no real purpose, none at all, other than the simple fact that Bahorel wanted to look at him. The adoration would've been obvious to anyone watching him, watching Feuilly. He took it into account himself, that adoration, wishing for a way to say that he wanted to give a name to the two of them. It was some sort of relationship, that much was obvious, neither was the type to open up if it wasn't going to lead to an actual connection. Of course, he could've just stated it directly whenever the other man woke up, but as forward as he was, he couldn't do that. Not if it mattered as much as this did.

He sighed, turning his dark eyes back to the ever-expansive road in front of him. _We'll get there eventually_. Whether he was referring to a definitive relationship, or to Seattle, he didn't know. He assumed both.

It was an entire hour before Feuilly woke up, leaving Bahorel to his own thoughts for that much longer. Really, he didn't mind at all. He was all about easy conversation- which usually came that much easier with Feuilly- but he appreciated silence as well. He wasn't one to feel as if he had to keep talking, although he often never shut up. Bahorel was content, though, talking to himself while the more naturally-quiet man slept on.

As he drove through Idaho's capital, the sounds of the city around them awakened Feuilly. Bahorel watched out of the corner of his eye, smiling as he yawned, blinking against the sun.

"Boise City?" Feuilly inquired, as he adjusted and sat up straighter in his chair.

"Yes, sir, that'd be it," Bahorel nodded, impressed with his guess. "I'd ask how you know, but I assume you'd reply with 'I've been around'."

"No."

"No?" Bahorel eyed him, curious now.

"No. I killed a man here, once." His face was still bored, uninterested. But Bahorel knew better.

"Yeah, right, nice try. Actually, that was a shitty try. You can't pull that crap on me."

Feuilly chuckled quietly, looking out the window. He still looked- and felt- half asleep. "Pull over there, at that burger place. We can eat."

"No, you want to drive."

"I want to eat. But yes." Bahorel rolled his eyes, but followed Feuilly's instructions and turned into a restaurant for lunch... and the switching of drivers.

"I guess my reign of the Greenbrier is over," He said, climbing out after long legs and beat up working boots.

"It was interim, you asshole," Feuilly replied without a glance, and reached back for Bahorel's hand as they walked into the restaurant. 

* * *

"Welcome to Washington State" the sign read, wooden and blue, painted with a multitude of trees that tried to match the real ones behind it. When they passed, Bahorel pleaded for Feuilly to turn back around and park.

"Why, Bahorel? Why do you need to see the sign?" He asked, exasperated. "I can guarantee it, you have been to Washington before, considering you'd never left the state until a week ago."

Bahorel ignored his whining, his cranky-old-man act, and asked instead if he happened to have a camera on the bus.

"Yeah, I do, a film one; it's old, in the back..." Bahorel raced back to get it, digging through a drawer set that Feuilly had fit along the backside.

"I got it!" He yelled, shuffling back to the front, and bounding down the steps. The ginger man- who, at this point, was exhausted from driving so much (he'd refused to let Bahorel drive against after Boise City)- was leaning against a lone picnic table with his eyes shut. He rubbed his forehead, and looked up at the very spry Bahorel, who had a grin spread wide across his dark face. This lightened Feuilly's mood a bit, but he still couldn't comprehend the reason he wanted a picture of the sign so bad. When he questioned, the reply was this:

"Well, I need you to take a picture of me. In front of the sign." He held up the camera, raising his shoulders in proposal. "Please? I know you think it's stupid, but I've never seen one of the Washington signs. It means that I've been outside of W-A, now.. You have to go outside to get back in."

Feuilly paused to consider this--it actually made a lot of sense. He wasn't a sentimental man- and guessed Bahorel wasn't either, not really- but it was a damn good idea. "I don't think it's stupid. I think it's a good idea. And it's cute, you so excited." Bahorel's grin grew even wider then, and Feuilly couldn't help but smile back. He left his place against the table and crossed the few feet between them, wrapping his arms around the back of Bahorel's neck, and kissed him. He returned the kiss, leaning into Feuilly as they fit their lips together. Feuilly opened his mouth wider (honestly, it was a random lead-in road to the state, no one would be around), and Bahorel muttered something about "brave actions for a recluse". Just as their kiss deepened, a car flew past, and someone- probably some college kid- _whooped_ out the window at them. Feuilly pulled back, red-faced and laughing at himself; Bahorel just chuckled and threw his arm around the shorter man's side.

"Now will you take my picture?" He asked, handing the camera to its owner, feigning innocence.

"Of course, you idiot." 

* * *

About thirty minutes before they predicted to hit Seattle, Feuilly demanded that he drive again. "Why? I'm fine driving, we only have half an hour before the city, and about 15 before we get to my apartment--"

"Can I please just drive?" His tone was more snappy than normal, Bahorel side-eyed him, and pulled to the shoulder. They quickly switched (they had it down to a science, now: one slides down, the other slides over, and the new driver settles in. No opening doors necessary.), and pulled back out onto the freeway.

"Are you okay, Feuilly?" Bahorel looked at him with thinly-veiled concern.

_I don't want to talk. I don't want to_. He drove on, stony faced.

"Feuilly."

Bahorel's words were met only with silence. A hand laid on Feuilly's arm, tanned, with that damn pink triangle shining up at him from one of the knuckles. He didn't move to shake it off; he wanted it closer.

Sighing, he said, "I'm scared. Again. I'm nervous about.. Living?"

The other man squeezed his arm, replying, "You live every day. This will only be more stationary. And you'll have me, who you're already comfortable with."

"More so."

"Huh?"

"I'm more than comfortable with you." His words were lighter, but he still looked upset, so Bahorel continued on.

"Alright, then. Agreed. But it will be good, I promise. You do not, in any way, have to be scared. Okay? I--" Bahorel stopped himself abruptly, continuing in a different direction. "I'm here for you. And I'll always be here for you."

Feuilly moved his arm then, shaking off Bahorel's hand only to hold it with his own. His face was still set, eyes glued to the road ahead, but he felt more settled. He chose to forget about what could have followed the "I". _He's good for this, I know that much. Comfort. And that's amazing, it is, because I can't even do that for myself._

He rubbed his thumb across the back of Bahorel's, watching out of the corner of his eye the faded combination of light and dark. "I- I haven't lived anywhere permanently since Crestview," he stumbled. "Since college," he tacked on, quickly.

"Crestview?"

"Since college." He refused to acknowledge the city he'd named.

"My knowing the name of where you assumedly lived your first eighteen years is not going to ruin your life, ruin our relationship, or bring everything back into your recent memory, unless you let it. It is only some shit name. So shut up."

"Okay."

"So continue on."

"Okay," he said again, not knowing exactly how to continue. "I haven't known anything but driving around. It's been years, Bahorel. And now I'm going to be living- permanently? ish?- with you, in a house, and that means settling--"

Bahorel cut him off. "It's technically an apartment." This earned him a signature look from the other.

"Technically, you have a dick, but I think you are one." _I may not be a total spitfire, but I could earn an award or two_ , he smirked to himself.

Bahorel gasped, "Fuck you, Feuilly! Fuck. you."

"Don't rush things now, hon'. I'm an old-fashioned sort of man." Feuilly replied, haughtily. It was now Feuilly's turn to be the receiver of someone's "signature look". To clear the air of teasing, Feuilly brought their clasped hands to his lips, and kissed Bahorel's, right on his tattoo.

"Really, thank you. For what you said. You know, you're good at this shit, this whole comfort thing." He ducked his head, trying to avoid saying anything else.

Leaning his head across the aisle and tilting his eyes up, Bahorel gazed lovingly at him. "Reaaally?"

"Okay, you're just teasing now."

"Yeah, but I'm cute when I'm teasing," he replied, batting his eyelashes.

"Yeah, okay, you are. But you always are. Mhm." Feuilly smiled down at the ridiculous man still trying to lean on him. When he looked back up, his face dropped, and his foot slammed on the break. "Oh, shit."

Bahorel threw himself back to an upright position at this, freaking out. "What? What's wrong?" He looked in the rearview, to check if anyone was behind them. Feuilly slowly started moving again, with a gulp.

"Look around you," he said tightly.

"Huh? All I see is--oh. _Oh_. Oh, my baby, I'm home." Bahorel sighed lovingly, melting against the window. "Seattle, I love you." This love-gazing stopped when he realized why Feuilly had completely stopped. They were _home_.

They were home--Bahorel's home. _He just stopped giving me the whole "it's gonna be alright" talk, and I'm already freaking out again! Jesus Christ! Breathe. Breaaaaathe_. Although his eyes were still spread huge, he was trying to relax. Bahorel guided him throughout the city, and he tried to take in the city displayed in near-evening light around him. He could audibly detect the adoration in the other man's voice, if only by street names and stoplights. If someone could love a single place that much, maybe he could, as well. Or maybe just that person.

"So, you take a left right over here, and go down just a bit until you see the blueish building. That one's mine. Then you gotta try and pull in, park just in front of the bike. No one ever parks there." The other man's voice was growing in excitement- and volume- as he gave out the final directions.

"Okay, okay" Feuilly kept repeating, trying to focus on parking and not the finality of the parking. It was easy enough, even with his big bus--even in such a crowded city, there really wasn't anyone parked in front of the impressive motorcycle. He cut the engine, peering across the man at his side to the building crowded between two others, the one dictated to be Bahorel's apartment.

_His new apartment._

"We're HERE!" Bahorel cried, unbuckling and throwing open the Greenbrier's door. "Home! I am back, and you have arrived!" Feuilly moved to scramble after him, not wanting to be alone in the bus. He figured he'd probably drive himself away in his panic. He sort of fell out the door, much less graceful and enthusiastic than the other man's jump. Feuilly stared up at the building, wondering which was Bahorel's- theirs, now- and didn't see the surprise attack from the other man. He was barreled into, swept up into a giant hug from an even more giant man, and sloppily kissed, right there in the street. They were both laughing, then, at their entire trip, situation, and destination (personal and physical). The moment of happiness, joy, and- yes- slight fear, was stopped almost as immediately as it had began.

"BAHOREL! YOU ARE IN MORE TROUBLE THAN YOU KNOW, OH MY GOODNESS! I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU!" There was more, but Feuilly couldn't comprehend what was being yelled. It was a huge, carrying, vaguely high-pitched voice; obviously male, though. Bahorel let go of him, refusing to turn around. His eyes looked horrified. Feuilly then made the mistake of peering around the other man to find the source of the screaming.

Coming directly at him (or Bahorel, assumedly) was a slight, short man, with long, red hair that could rival his own. It was messy, like he'd tried to pull it aside but it had fallen, and his clothes were rumpled and dirty. His face, which seemed kind of delicate, was _very_ flushed and full of rage. Feuilly had only that glance before the man- who had to have been at least a foot shorter than Bahorel, and much skinnier- stomped up to them, tapped Bahorel on the shoulder, and punched him square in the eye with one fist, and the nose with the other.

_What, the fuck?_ He thought, as he stared on incredulously. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how was it?! Little bit of an interruption at the end... that will have to be continued shortly, I suppose. Hope you all enjoyed, and apologies for any mistakes; I've written this all from my iPad + keyboard, I'm out of town.  
> I'm still a big fan of this chapter, and the next will be out soon!  
> Love (and hopefully, the absence of tears),  
> Megan.


	6. Bloodied Bikers (and Bathrooms)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fairy boy and the reserved man stare each other down. The supposedly tough man whines about being all bloody. Things are said, laughs are had, these boys are fucking ridiculous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back on the laptop, for this chapter! I think this is the shortest spread between publishing I've had. Good, yes?! Hope y'all enjoy this one. Not much happens, exactly, but we've got Jehan in there. And I promise--he's not actually a psychopath. (or a highly-functioning sociopath.)

"...So," Feuilly began. The man sitting across from him simply raised his eyebrows and made a clicking noise, sipping from the mug he'd covertly procured, silencing the conversation before it began. 

That was the third time Feuilly had tried to talk to Bahorel's assaulter. 

He was not going to try a fourth. 

The man- who was really more boy-like, he had to have been at least four years younger than Feuilly- was simply sat in a plain wicker stool in Bahorel's apartment. Just sitting there. Feuilly was slouched (uncomfortably) on the couch against the wall, facing the man--and extremely confused. His jaw was drawn tight, his long fingers crossed on his knees. He sat somewhat hunched over, trying to both avoid eye contact and study the... _assailant?_  

_I knew this whole arriving-at-permanence thing was going to be scary. But I did not assume this. He's just... there. Who_ is _he? I mean, Bahorel is a little bit of a shithead, yeah, but how'd he piss this kid off so much that he had to nearly break his nose?_ The other, much smaller man caught Feuilly staring, and tilted his chin so his eyes scorched emerald down at him. _Jesus,_ he commented in his head, averting his eyes and wrinkling his forehead up in bewilderment. _Guess I'll just sit here, then? Obviously can't do anything else. I don't think he'll let me._  

The tension was horribly obvious in the small living room. The edginess was like a physical object, pressing into Feuilly on all sides and seemingly seeping into his brain. He thought he was going to go insane. Bahorel's living room helped none of this; actually, it made it worse. There was a big television, with multiple gaming systems hooked up, two bookshelves covered in not only books but cd's, comics, and movies. The couch occupied a large chunk of space, alongside a wooden coffee table (that was definitely drink-stained), a black, sunken-in bowl chair, and the probably inexpensive stool the other man was perched atop... Who, now that he thought of it, was completely unaffected by the awkwardness surrounding the two of them and, actually, the entire situation. Of course, this only heightened Feuilly's irritation and discomfort. If the man wouldn't speak to him, at least _leave_ , so he could tend to Bahorel in peace. Or without a little bird hanging over his shoulder. Pecking his eyes out. 

If there had been any onlookers to this little un-interaction in a cluttered apartment, it would have been humorous purely by it's intention to be serious. Two men: one halfway through his twenties, the other just beginning his. The former was fairly large, in height and stature; though, not exactly in presence. The latter probably didn't reach the other's shoulder and was quite thin. Willowy, but not washing away. He was solid, in self, not through appearance. Observations about that could be reaffirmed by their posture (folding away, or perfectly straight?). Their clothes, too--oh, how you could point out the differences! One wore a simple t-shirt and jeans, with beat-up boots. All of the "artistic licensing" belonged to the other, apparently. He was donned in light grey jeans, rolled up, with purple cuffs. A pale pink cardigan, which hung off of his slender arms. The shirt he wore under was a mixture of more pastel colors, some pattern that couldn't really be discerned. His small feet wore brogues. Typical enough, not that they matched too well. The two men- who seemed to be absolute opposites in their size and fashion- still shared a few outward characteristics. Both were pale, had speckled milky complexions. One had more freckles than the other, and his hair was short, curly, a more flaming red. Paleness was written all across the other, from his clothes and his skin to his freckles and even his hair. It was still ginger, just a lighter sort, and pulled down into a short braid that had been redone since his explosion in the street. Long eyelashes would, ever so often, look up from one man's cheek to peek at the other. Anyone would guess who the intimidated party would typically be, but it was definitely the opposite, here. The intimidator was now calmly drinking tea and giving a stare-down to a man much larger than he. 

The two men sat, exactly like that, for at least fifteen minutes straight. The only sign of life was, initially, attempted words. Those ceased, and were followed by the raising and lowering of a mug, and the looking at and away of light-hued eyes. In other words, it was silent and awkward as all hell. 

_So, if I just inch off the couch and sprint to the bathroom, will this wiry kid get me?_ _...I don't want to chance it._

From his place on the couch, Feuilly contemplated a way to go help Bahorel- who had been bleeding all over himself as they'd gone up to his apartment- without having the still-unnamed man jump up after him. His eyes lifted from where they'd been staring blankly at his hands, lazily drifting up and across the room to the stranger. He'd decided he would just stare back, if nothing else; he leaned back on the couch, crossing a leg over a knee and folding his arms across his chest. A position of confidence--not that he had much, really, the other person was both a stranger and obviously not what he appeared. Not Feuilly's favorite thing, either one. He was still tiny, though, so Feuilly allowed himself to get just a tiny bit haughty with his attitude. Hazel met with light green in the middle of the room, both stares hardened and tough, but neither glaring. When Feuilly narrowed his eyes, the other man widened his, as if he were observing something. 

_So he's not just some fairy boy. He's strong, confident, et cetera. If he's like that, then, I'm sure you can turn it right around and say there's way more to him than what I've just seen. So he probably really is a light-colored, lighthearted man. But with a punch.. literally._

"UAAAAAAAGGHHH," came a noise from the bathroom. There had been some cursing when they were downstairs, and lots of banging around in the medicine cabinet from Bahorel, but this was more like a wolf being strangled. The two sitting in the living room broke off their staring contest (it most definitely could be called that) and whipped their heads around to the find the source of the battle-cry-slash-murder. 

As they gaped, both halfway out of their chairs, the man who had refused to speak let something slip out of his mouth. "Eh..? What is he doing?" They were whispered words, but Feuilly heard anyway, and was shocked. _His voice is so quiet and.. clear. I guess it fits him, y'know, with his soft everything. Except his, uh, fighting skills._ While he was thinking this, his eyes flicked to where the boy was now standing. He had obviously noticed his silence was broken, too, and had his nose scrunched up in aggravation. Feuilly couldn't help but laugh a little, and the other man caught his eye looking both helpless and infuriated. Of course, this did nothing but further Feuilly's amusement. 

They were both standing straight now, and the (much) shorter man marched closer to Feuilly with a finger pointed at him. "Do _not_ \--" his voice rose higher as he was cut off by piano music, which started playing from his pocket at the same time another howl erupted from the bathroom. Feuilly stood frozen, watching as the tiny person in front of him looked from him, to the direction of the noise, and back again before realizing that his phone was ringing, too. His thin hands (which were tinted darker at the fingertips--assumedly ink?) spasmed, reaching into his jeans and retrieving the phone. He slid his finger across the screen and held it up to his ear, listening intently with eyes still wide from the interruptions. The way the man's arm was positioned, his sleeve was falling, and Feuilly was impressed to note the presence of tattoos around his wrist. He was now relinquished from his being the subject of a watchful, intimidating gaze, but he didn't run off to check on Bahorel and his animal noises immediately. The small man had piqued his interest. He tried to make out what the voice was saying on the other line, but he couldn't hear anything besides animated mumbling. Not even a name he could pin onto this fairy boy. _I could just call him that, fairy boy._

"No, no, he's here now! No, he got home maybe twenty minutes ago.. Yes, I'm coming back to my apartment.. Just meet me there, okay? Courf, no, I'm fine, what? No, Bahorel is fine as well.. kind of!" He was getting his lofty-sounding words out nearly faster than Feuilly could comprehend--if he had been a mumbler, even a tiny bit, the words would have been totally lost. Hopefully whoever was on the other line kept up better than he did. 

After a pause to receive words (words that had made the "fairy boy" smile, or smirk), he spoke again. "Yes, Courfeyrac, I love you too, I'll be home in just a bit, I need to make another point," _Oh, lovely._ "Oh! And there's something I have to tell you that you are going to absolutely love. Ha!" He took a quick glance at Feuilly, then, all menace replaced with teasing. "It's relating to Bahorel _\- pause-_ and the cute stranger that showed up with him." A screeching exclamation came from the absent person, and Feuilly's eyes widened at this boy who was, apparently, not only shocking with his fists but with his words, as well. 

"Goodbye!" Feuilly thought he was saying it to the phone, but it was removed from his ear and the salutation was instead directed at him. 

"Uh, bye? Were you--talking, uh, about me?" 

"Your discomfort is quite adorable. It has been this whole time. Sorry to have shocked you with that little display outside, but some people," he said with a cutting of his eyes at the bathroom, "need to be punched. I usually get worked up about things, I'm passionate. Typically just not like that. Oh, well. Now there'll be no surprises!" 

Feuilly just stared, not knowing how to respond to his sudden talkative manner. 

"Well, I'm glad to have reaffirmed the fact that I am able to scare much larger men than I, but I've got to be going. Slam my tea cup down on the table for me, yell at Bahorel a little, that's what I would do if I were staying. Nice meeting you, though I don't know your name, I'll learn it soon enough. I'm a close friend of Bahorel's, so, we'll be seeing each other. I promise I'm not as insane, or eccentric, as you may currently be thinking." 

He wore a small smile on his face, a little quirk of friendliness. He took a step toward the door, past Feuilly, and reached up to lay a hand on the taller man's shoulder for half a second as he went to leave. Feuilly only looked down at him, still befuddled. "Jehan," the fairy boy stated, raising a hand. 

_Hm._ "I'll see you, then, Jehan," Feuilly said, watching as the man nodded slightly, then turned and closed the door behind him. 

Just then, the wailing began again, and he realized again the entire reason Jehan had been in the apartment--he had punched Bahorel. Twice. Feuilly paused for a tiny moment, then sprinted off to the bathroom to find Bahorel. 

* * *

"Oh, Jesus _Christ_." Feuilly's eyes were huge as he took in the scene before him. What would've been a typical blue-and-white tile bathroom was spattered with bright, red blood, as vibrant as the man it was spilled from. It was all over the sink, in the shower, on the floor, and still running down the hands and face of the victim. 

"I don't know why it's still bleeding!!" Bahorel choked out, sitting on the lid of the toilet with his head tilted back, tissues pressed against his nose and scattered around him. His voice was on the verge of wailing; the panic was clear. Feuilly was torn between laughing at the man's paranoid antics and being distraught at the copious amount of blood that was- yes- still running down his face. He decided on a sort of middle ground--actually helping him. He carefully avoided the newly-red spots on the floor, and tried to get Bahorel to stand up. 

"Um, I'm not exactly a medic, but come on. Stand up, move to the sink, I'll help you." He could hear the concern in his own voice, and Bahorel was probably too wound up to do anything other than follow Feuilly's directions. The two steps it took to get him to the sink were slightly ridiculous--the bleeding man refusing to tilt his head downward, and tripping, and getting his bloody hands all over Feuilly's arms and shirt. Not to mention lots of grumbling from the both of them. 

"Okay, throw the tissues away. We've got to at least wash your face off, or everything's just gonna stay bloody- Just hold still- Don't flinch!- Bahorel, oh my god! Stop moving!" He was trying to wipe off Bahorel's face with a wet cloth, but the man kept flinching away. Finally, Feuilly was sick of it. "Bahorel! Stop. fucking. squirming! I thought you could handle pain better than this! The first night we met- which, really, was like three days ago- was BECAUSE I PUNCHED SOME DUDE. So shut the fuck up and let me take care of you!" 

That shut Bahorel up perfectly. He took a deep breath, mumbling something like  _Igettobeababysometimes_ , before slouching his shoulders over in defeat and _shutting the hell up_. Feuilly was then able to actually clean his face of blood--and the whiny child act. When they got the blood to stop gushing (which it really hadn't been that badly, it just appeared so because of the mess on his skin already), Feuilly made the invalid sit on the edge of the tub and pinch the bridge of his nose while he wiped down the crimson-smeared bathroom. That didn't take him long; everything was easy to get out considering there was no rugs or anything. _He's either got everything or nothing in this damn apartment, and it varies from room to room. Hmp!_  The towels, he assumed, would be a different story. _Hope Bahorel has stain remover._  

"See how easily I can take care of things?" Feuilly stated, raising his eyebrows at Bahorel, as he sat on the countertop. 

He turned his face up to Feuilly, giving him a full view of his injured features. "Sorry I was.. howling. And on the verge of a dramatic breakdown. But that _hurt_. Jehan is terrifying sometimes!" 

"I appreciate the apology. But your face right now is something I'm appreciating more." 

"Thank you. I hope you are never punched by that beautiful little poet shitface. And, what? I know I don't look too hot pinching my nose, and I sound ridiculous, but--" 

"Well, yeah, that. You sound like a congested old geezer. Still somehow attractive, even sounding like that. But that's not exactly what I'm referring to... come here. Look in the mirror." Bahorel did as suggested, getting up slowly as if any sudden movement would make him pour blood again. Feuilly twisted around on the counter, so he could watch Bahorel and his reflection. Rather, the reaction to his reflection. 

"Oh my _god_ ," he said with an unhinged mouth, as he ran one hand through his hair to push it back. The other was still holding his nose. Bahorel took in the image of himself in the mirror, the full-frontal view. "Holy shit, man." His left eye was completely purple, already bruising horribly. All along his cheekbone was darkened, and puffy; the black eye extended upwards to his still-darker eyebrow. The whites of his eyes stood out even more now, in between the bruise and the brown iris. 

"I look fucking awesome!" His gaping had turned into a lopsided grin, and Feuilly was dumbfounded by this reaction. _Hadn't he_ just _been in hysterics?_  

Feuilly laughed at him, not complaining about his change of attitude. "Well, okay. You do look kind of badass. As soon as you can stop pinching your nose, you should grab a cigarette and go ride your motorcycle. All the mothers would be telling their daughters to stay away, and their closeted gay brothers would be lusting after you from the sidewalk." 

Bahorel chuckled at that, breaking away from admiring himself in the mirror to put both of his (now clean) hands on Feuilly's thighs. "Not that we want that. I only need one gay boy after me, and I think I've accomplished that, even bloodied and broken." As he spoke, the two men had decreased the space between them. Feuilly's legs wrapped around Bahorel, standing in front of him, and they crashed their lips together, craving the other. It was a hungry sort of kiss, seductive and electric. Sloppy, messy; that was of no matter to the two. Abruptly, the redheaded man snapped backwards, bringing his hand to his face. His eyes took a moment to refocus, clearing from a hazy place, and what he saw on the other man's face explained what he felt on his. 

"What?" Bahorel asked, still obviously foggy from the kiss. It only took a few moments for him to see the look on Feuilly's face... and the red on his hands from where he'd touched his cheek. " _Oh_." His own hand snapped to his nose, where, sure enough, there was a thin stream of blood running into his lips and facial hair. "Oh, shit! Shit, oh my god, I'm sorry!" 

Feuilly's face was one of judgement and disbelief, looking at Bahorel like 'what the fuck, you idiot'. Seeing his face, the bleeding man apologized again. "I'm sorry! You know I didn't mean to, I just forgot, I mean--" Feuilly interrupted him, throwing the towel at his face. 

"I'm joking, B! It's not entirely your fault, really. It's not like I protested.." he leaned in again, as if he were going to kiss him, but pulled away at the last second and winked at him. "But I'm not letting you off that easy. Hold your nose again." 

The bleeding man blushed, embarrassed, lowering his gaze in defeat. He washed his face off (again), then moved to clean the little bit of red off of Feuilly. He let him; and his dark fingers were tender on Feuilly's cheek. Hardly anything had gotten on him, really, it was a ton easier to get off than it had been with Bahorel's own bearded face. 

"You know, you need to shave." Bahorel joked, grazing his rough fingers over the man's stubbled jaw. He watched as Feuilly snapped his hand up to his jaw, rubbing what he did, in fact, need to shave. 

"Crap, I do. I look ridiculous with facial hair. Like a fucking leprechaun. You, however, pull it off quite nicely," he started sliding off the counter, which, of course, made him move nearer Bahorel, who was still standing against it. "You also pull off a multitude of other things quite nicely," Feuilly said as he shifted his weight through his legs to his feet, now planted on the tile floor. Pressed completely against Bahorel. He hooked two fingers under the hem of his blood-stained shirt, raising it a tiny bit and looking at him with eyes that could make the man melt. Bahorel's eyes widened as he looked down to where Feuilly's hand was touching his skin, and back up to his face which was up to no good. 

Feuilly hadn't taken his eyes from Bahorel's face, and at the exact moment that he relaxed into what was going on, Feuilly jumped past him. "Ha! Yeah, right, Bahorel! _Not_ right now, oh, no!" He grabbed his hand, pulling the larger man behind him as he ran off into the other room, still laughing. 

Bahorel was lost. "What?" His mouth was hanging wide, staring at the redhead. "Oh my fucking _god_! Oh, fuck you!" He huffed, realizing Feuilly's intent, while being dragged into his kitchen.

* * *

He threw himself down in a chair with a huge roll of his eyes, not forgetting this time to pinch the bridge of his nose. Feuilly was still beside himself with his little joke, taking a seat across from Bahorel. 

"If you do not stop laughing at me, I promise you, I will call Jehan right now and send him back here for you!" At the threat, Feuilly raised his eyebrows- only more amused- and quieted down, trying to catch his breath. 

"Sorry, but it worked. It was fun." 

"It was a little personal, for someone like you." This made Feuilly stop altogether, all humor draining from his face. When he spoke again, his words were shorter than he'd meant to say them. 

"I think we've reached a point." 

"I'm not pressing that, okay?" _Well I will. Cause--no. No.  
_

"Then I'll explain: I'm introverted. I'm always gonna be that way, at the base of things, alright? But I am completely comfortable with the people that I like and I have a positive relationship with and I care about. I can be myself, because I enjoy being with those people. And right now, you're really my only one of 'those people'. Please, stop pointing it out whenever I do something outside of myself, like that. It sucks when you've got an image of yourself- that you know everyone sees- and it keeps being pointed out to you," he paused, taking a breath, "So let me be comfortable with you." 

Bahorel reached his free hand across the table, resting it over Feuilly's. The other man looked up at him, eyes shining slightly. "Listen to me, I am so sorry. Don't think I meant that so seriously, or as such a dig at you. Thank you, though, for calling me out on my shit! For telling me! Cause I would rather get punched again by that little sprite I call my friend than hurt you. You're the best person I've come across in a long time, Feuilly. And I, well, I care about you. More than I probably should, more than is safe. So be comfortable with me, and let me care." 

Feuilly leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, smiling almost remorsefully at the man across from him, taking comfort in the dark hand on his. His eyes were still saddened, but seeing the earnest in Bahorel's forced easy positivity into his face. "Alright. Thank you." 

He squeezed the pale hand, their tattoos and skin colors pressing together beautifully. That was all the response needed. It seemed, then, that everything in the world could have been fixed with their interaction (which could be either forgotten easily or ingrained into memories, forever). They knew it really couldn't, of course, but the explaining of souls and minds and how people _work_ together was something that was hardly ever done, and always needed to be. From the middle of their peaceful- thoughtful- silence, Feuilly let out a short laugh. 

"What?" Bahorel asked, amused by the random outburst. 

He was now tilting his head back, over the chair, smiling widely at the ceiling. "Oh, nothing. I don't even know. Just laughing at myself, at being emotional, at being here, being happy." 

Both grinned now, at all of those things. "At being happy. Not a bad thing." 

"Not at all. I would say thank you, again, but if I had to thank you every time you made me smile, or anything, then I'd be saying almost nothing else." Bahorel was watching him as he said this, still smiling and unaware of being watched. "Oh! Jehan told me to do something for you." 

He raised his eyebrow- the other was swelling too much to really move anywhere- and inquired, "Jehan spoke to you?" 

"We're apparently going to be good friends. He said he's not actually insane or eccentric." 

"Not eccentric? No, he's eccentric. Just not insane." 

Out of nowhere, Feuilly slammed a random glass onto the table. "BAHOREL!" He yelled, through his lighthearted laughing. 

"What the fuck?!" Bahorel replied. "Are you the insane one, then??" 

Feuilly was standing, now, hunched over in his manic laughing. "That's what Jehan told me to do!" 

In spite of himself, Bahorel joined in on the laughing, staring at the other man with an expression of ridiculousness and disbelief. After a minute or two, Feuilly remembered something he'd meant to say earlier.  

"Oh, yeah! I meant to ask.. How the FUCK did you get him so goddamn mad at you?!" 

Bahorel's face changed from one of amusement to one of sheepishness. "Um, well.." he began, shrugging his shoulders, "Remember how I told you that I'd set my friend's poetry textbook on fire?" 

Feuilly's mouth dropped open, and he moved to cover it with his hands. "Oh my god! That is _great_. Horrible, but great." 

"No it's not! He attacked me! Not great!" 

"I think it's hilarious. On both ends. Not the fact that, you know, you're busted up. Still." the one who was 'busted up' glared at him. "And hey, I got to meet one of your friends without a chance to freak out because of stranger interaction. Now there'll be no surprises." Feuilly finished with a slightly teasing air, quoting words that only he had heard Jehan say. 

"Oh, no. My other friends are all unimaginable in their own ways," Bahorel assured. 

"I handled this one, somewhat. Maybe I'll be alright with the rest." 

"Don't worry. You'll be perfect."

And in the way he uttered those last words, Feuilly knew he was referring to more than simply with his friends. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, all, for reading! Tell me what you think, leave kudos, etc. I am now at the end of where I had originally plotted out the story, so here is my advance apology if it takes a while before the next chapter is published!   
> love to all,   
> Megan.


	7. Muddled Mornings (And Things That Go With)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly can't stand his first night. Anxiety problems, night time horrors, and an early morning that doesn't end up too horribly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY FOR TAKING OVER TO WEEKS TO WRITE THIS. MARCHING CAMP SUCKS. ENJOY.

4 a.m., the alarm clock read, glowing through the pitch-black night. Feuilly laid back against the pillows, the sheets, exhaling softly and closing his eyes again. His head was pounding, and his blood thrumming through his veins, so insistently he could feel it through his skin. There had been no bad dream, no nightmares--he never dreamt much, at all. The reason for his waking up was more along the lines of panic, of discomfort. It wasn't his bed, there was no creaking of the bus, it was all so different. Even with Bahorel still curled up next to him, it was foreign and it was frightening. The man had never been around to save Feuilly from any panic or problem before, and while he may be able to help now, Feuilly refused to become dependent on someone like that. He tried to even his breaths, to count slowly in his mind, to do things he knew were supposed to aid in calming down. The beat of his heart was still much too fast; it was strange. His mind was turning slowly through his half-sleeping senses, aware of nothing besides the darkness and his racing pulse. He opened his eyes knowing that sleep wouldn't come in a state like this. _I would've done better keeping them closed,_ he thought, wincing. It was the only coherent thought he could form, between the sleep lag and the panic in the darkness. He was blinking, fast, trying to both block out his nervousness and accustom himself to the unlit room. He could've woken up Bahorel, and it all would've been done, but that pushed his heart faster and he decided against it. Impassivity took over him again, over his mind--not what he was actually feeling. He was trying to stay emotionless, to stay calm.

_Click. Click. Click. Click. Click._

Feuilly couldn't see it at all, but he remembered the other man turning on a small floor fan before they slept the night before. They'd fallen asleep talking, he must've not noticed it... But it was definitely making a noise--a constant, annoying clicking. That goddamn sound did horrors to his already-present agitation and terror, his heart rate climbed higher and higher. He jolted up in bed, feeling as if the click and his pulse were combining to tap, tap, tap on his skull. He thumped his thumb and forefinger against each other, repeating the motion, a habit that he'd picked up over a decade ago. It was a bad habit, you could say, an unfortunate one, but it was better than old ways of dealing with his anxiety (leaving. fits. violence). It was creeping back up on him, the flicking and the anxiety, crawling up his legs and across his body. He felt as if he would only be capable of calming down if he could jump out of his skin and run off, leaving everything behind in that room. The dark, the sounds, the peaceful sleeper beside him; it was all agitating. _I am going out of my mind, these are normal things, why the fuck am I so.._ insane _tonight?_ _It's fine, it's all fine--_ he broke off his internal prattling, running a rough hand through his tangled curls. His palm slid back down to press against the back of his eyelids, pushing down too hard, trying to force his problems away.

He sat like that for not even two more minutes. Feuilly could've told anyone that the shit he attempted to calm himself down would have never worked, has never worked, in a million years. Normally, though, his attacks weren't so bad, so random. _All I did was wake up, couldn't lay back down, the noise, Bahorel, just myself, I am ridiculous, this is so stupid._ His attacks: the blame was nearly always put on himself, unless there was a rational and immediate cause. With a groan loud enough to wake the man beside him, he threw himself out of the bed. _I've gotta go somewhere, I'm going to wake him up if I don't._ It wasn't until he threw on his jeans and shoes and closed the apartment door behind him that he had no clue where he could go. He had no idea of the building, the streets, even the city. However, he was still trembling with panic, an almost crazed internal emotion, and ignored the fact. Feuilly stumbled down the hall, his feet tripping up on the carpet while his hand slid along one of the walls. He moved as fast as he could, trying simultaneously to escape Bahorel's apartment and go back there. He hit the end of the hall, and to his right was a door marked "STAIRWELL". Any other time, he'd have preferred to hit an elevator, but he needed to get out of the level and the state of mind he'd succumbed to. If the stairs were what he found first, then hell, let him take the stairs. He pulled the door open, hands shaking, and staggered into the concrete stairwell.

His feet moved awful and clumsy down the countless flights of stairs, hardly moving by his own accord--his brain was moving both infinitely fast and horribly slow. Judgment and movement were two functions that laid in the lethargic region of his mind, presently. His thoughts were running non-stop, but it was nothing he wanted to think. All there was in his mind were horrible words and images that incited more panic within him. His eyes were wild and crying, there were words being mumbled to himself, he so fiercely hoped that he would run into no one on the way down. Falling down to the freezing concrete would have been so much easier; he could've lain there and wailed and no one would have found out. He wouldn't have to face himself, Bahorel, any one else. That behavior wasn't him, though, even in the centre of a panic attack. He didn't handle this _shit_ that way, by stopping and going under. He still fought, even when he shouldn't, even when there were better ways of clearing his mind. Out of nowhere, a wave of nausea hit him. _I'm.. almost- down, done- come on--_ He was not going to puke in that stairwell (he knew himself well enough that he'd feel crappy about it and have to come back to clean it up). His breaths were extremely short now, much too ragged, and the bile rising in his throat heightened his frenzy. Finally, when he was beginning to see the stairwell as something more along the lines of Alice's rabbit hole, there were no more corners to turn into and Feuilly's worn-out body fell hard against a dirty metal door.

Faded hazel eyes looked up from their place on a weary body, slumped against the crack between concrete and metal. Feuilly's face was flushed, his eyes nearly bloodshot; he looked as if he'd found hell in the space between the seventh floor and the street. Maybe he had, but hell was something he'd proven he could handle.

Heaving a huge breath, he lifted a heavy arm up to the push-bar on the door, creaking it open. His teary, haunted face searched around the doorframe, cautious to not be seen. There wasn't any one around; that he could see, anyway. Getting out of the building without drawing attention wouldn't be the problem. Standing up again, functioning enough to calmly move one leg, then the other--that'd be the problem. Between the door handle and the wall, thick limbs lifted a dead-weight body to its full height. Once up, Feuilly rested his head against his arm, trying to even his breath. He shut his eyes, light eyelashes stroking the back of his hand with leftover tears. There were curls going in all directions atop his head, falling into his face and over his hands. If anything on him, physically, were to represent how he felt inside, his hair would've done it perfectly: Wild chaos in a picture of something that, really, isn't too bad. Not that any of these things were his thoughts, then. _Breathe, breathe, breathe,_ was what Feuilly was repeating to himself. His chest, covered only by a thin shirt, shook with each uneven breath. Before he stood there for too long- which would, undoubtedly, lead to another flood of panic- he pushed open the door and took a quiet step into the bottom floor that served no purpose besides having mailboxes and an out-of-service coffee machine. He'd been correct a few minutes before, in his assumption. The kid who Bahorel had warned him about who was supposed to stay up and watch the door was nowhere to be found. _B-better for me._ Feuilly's wide eyes accustomed themselves to the dingy, dark light of the "lobby" as he felt his way across the tile floors. His hands laid across the door, and he pulled it open as silently as he could. It squeaked (expected, the apartment building was relative shit), and Feuilly's heart rate picked up as he scanned the room for the kid to show up. Nothing, though; he made his escape into the cool night of early October.

The night air welcomed him generously, settling around him with a chilled breath. It was a simple movement of nature, but it was as if the wind were saying "It's okay. You can breathe here." Feuilly had never understood his panic attacks, or his ways of coping, or the reasons that the things that calmed him down affected him the way they did. One thing he knew, though, was that getting outside and watching the sky and letting oxygen rush from his lungs was better for him in these states of mind than anything else. _So, even half-crazed, I can do this. I did it, thank god._ He turned back to look at the apartment building behind him, making sure no lights were on in Bahorel's. _No. But the walls were closing me in. I needed to get out here._ He started to turn away from the windows above, wishing that he'd soon be able to be totally at peace up there, in that messy apartment. _And I'm sure Bahorel will help._ His eyes- which were still tinged red- scanned the lamplit street around him. All of a sudden, he remembered his earlier thought: he didn't know where in the hell he was planning on going. Feuilly didn't know Seattle at all, not one bit. It's not even like the man's apartment was at the city center, there weren't any recognizable spots around-- _shit._ He made a half turn around, tripping slightly over his own boots, whipping his head around for street signs or lighted buildings. Nothing. The darkness was blending everything together in his vision. _I don't even know Seattle, Jesus, Feuilly, you can't fucking stand here and do nothing but you're going to get lost and..._ His shaky mental state was rising again with returning panic that trailed off when his roaming eyes settled on one familiar thing in the road: his Greenbrier.

"Oh, my god. Oh my god." The words came out of his mouth sounding scratched, but with more relief than should've been possible for only a few tiny, overused words. Seeing the bus eased so much of the raucous mess inside him--it was home. Feuilly's feet and legs carried him, compelled him, the bit down the street. For just a second, he stood calmly in front of his bus, staring. _An old-ass Greenbrier is my holy place._ He couldn't help but chuckle to himself as he lay his palms against the cool metal in his own form of praise and devotion. The keys were in the pocket of his jeans, as always, and he felt for them as he ran his hand against the bus, finding the familiar door handle. With the door open, and feet taking steps inside, breathing came easier and heart rates slowed. Feuilly shut himself inside, falling back into the driver's seat that fit his body perfectly. He didn't know how long he sat there with eyes staring at the roof and tiny slants of light falling through the midnight windows. Every part of his body was unmoving. His mind fell silent. A tiny smile crept across his features, pairing perfectly with the reacquainting of himself and the Greenbrier.

"Alright."

Hazel eyes fell open. "I'm alright."

Ginger hair turned to search the dark bus. "Those are alright, too," he whispered, with slight regret in his tone, as his eyes fell on a particular hiding spot.

Feuilly moved to stand, bending over and walking to the back where his makeshift drawers stood. Tattoos covered the majority of his arms, and his hands almost glowed in pale contrast. Those ink-free hands lit the way to the handle, which pulled open the middle drawer. He shifted through clothes and papers and pocketknives, trying to find what he was in search of. (His hands may have been easy to see in the dark bus, but they didn't _actually_ emit any light.) After a bit of digging around, his hands landed on what he'd been searching for. He'll admit--it was a crutch, a bad one. Nimble fingers pulled a small package out of the drawer. A cigarette carton. He didn't smoke often.. but, still. He knew it was horrible to do to himself. Dying of a panic attack was horrible, too. Oh, well. _Welcome back, motherfuckers. Calling on you. And I'll hate myself again, but now there's a boy. Maybe I won't have room for hating myself, especially in that tiny goddamn apartment._ He grabbed his lighter out of the passenger's side door (where he'd always kept it) and jumped out of the Greenbrier, pack in hand. He locked the doors behind him; no fucking way would some kid from around here steal his bus while he was around. 

Exhaling, Feuilly flipped the pack open and leaned his t-shirt clad shoulders against the cool metal of the bus. He pulled a thin cigarette out and stuck it between his lips, the same place he always had, directly under a tiny freckle on his upper lip. Everything was habitual with Feuilly--from the way he placed his cigarettes in his mouth to how he only slept full nights through if he was on the Greenbrier, facing the wall and not the other seats. He flicked the lighter and brought it to the cigarette, starting what he knew would now be an even longer night. Feuilly took a long drag, blowing the smoke out in front of him. _Why're the wonderful things deadly?_ For a while longer, he stood there with his back pressed against his safe place, smoking his "relaxing agent" that shouldn't have been so good to him. All of the worry and hysteria inside of him had subsided, faded away. However long the night's ordeal had been, Feuilly was thankful it was gone, now. More than anything, he hated feeling like _that_. Despised it with every thing he had inside of him. He turned his head, rolling over his shoulders, trying to loosen up his now-stiff body. He hummed through the smoke, and saw a girl riding toward him on a bicycle, reflectors and all. She saw him, he knew- the smoke was obvious, but slowed only infinitesimally as she sped by and away. Her dark curly hair was piled atop her head, in some big bun that Feuilly didn't quite understand. _Lost girls and lost boys_ , he observed. He'd seen the glance she'd given him, one of "yeah, me too. Good luck." It was casual, but if you'd felt it, you knew. Feuilly kept watching her dark skin and white shirt as she whipped around the corner, heading toward the city center. He only knew that much because the sky was lit, there, and not with the pale colors that were going to rise in the other direction. 

"Missing people, go home," he muttered, kicking his foot against the curb and putting out his cigarette. It was a piece of advice for every one like himself, and for once in his life, he took his own. He put the pack and lighter in his back pocket, and threw away the burnt out one as he pulled the apartment building door back open.

* * *

 

The inside air hit him as the door closed, both too cool and too warm for the temperature outside. It took a minute to adjust to the light, for Feuilly, with the singular lamp not illuminating much of anything. 

"Hey! I thought someone had gone outside!" A voice called from Feuilly's right. He jumped, shocked--who the fuck? He turned his eyes towards the noise, and saw a teenage boy. Relieved, he sighed. It was the lobby-watching kid. 

"Jesus, man. You scared me. You know, you weren't exactly doing your job when I left." Feuilly lumbered over to the counter where the boy was leaning back in a rolling chair, looking bored (but not without some mild interest in his face). He scoffed down at the kid, who couldn't have been more than sixteen, with his unkempt long hair and tired, wild brown eyes. 

The kid sat up, retorting, "Hey. No one I need to worry about ever really comes through here, so I just sit in the back and play video games. Like you'd actually be out here!" 

Feuilly laughed. "That's true. I wouldn't even be here at all, if I were- sixteen?-" 

"Almost," he interrupted.

"Okay, if I were fifteen-almost-sixteen, I would already be gone. Kudos to you for not totally blowing this off." Feuilly had been a good kid, but he took every chance he wasn't being watched to get out and away from under his parent's roof. 

Raising his thick eyebrows, the kid reached out a hand. "Hmph, my dad would beat my ass if I left. Not that I get paid for this, or anything. I just stay up late anyway, so he stuck me here. He's the apartment manager." The taller man returned the handshake, amused. "Also, I have no idea who you are. I'm Santi. Well, okay, it's Santiago, but that's my dad, so lord help you if you call me that." 

The kid- Sant- seemed nice enough. Teenage boy, he's going to be a little rough; Feuilly thought he'd be the class-clown kind of boy. Unconcerned about lots of things. Feuilly smiled, knowing all too well the pain of family names. "I'm Feuilly. I know, it's weird. Nice to meet you, though." 

Upon hearing his name, Santi's eyes brightened quickly. "Feuilly? That sounds French." 

"...It is, yes?" 

"Friends with Bahorel, on the seventh floor?!" 

He tilted his head at that one, deciding how to respond. "Friends, sure. How'd you know?" 

Santi had a smart grin on his face, now. "First off, Bahorel's one of the only really cool people in this whole dump. You seem cool. Second, all his friends have weird-ass names, or only go by their last names. You fit somewhere, there." He paused, watching for Feuilly's reaction. "..And, Bahorel called my dad earlier to tell him that he's got a friend living with him now." 

"He- he did?" Feuilly was taken aback, even though he supposed it was something the manager would need to know. "Friend, hmph," he said under his breath. 

"YES!" Santi jumped out of his chair. 

Feuilly's eyes grew wide in the dark lobby, staring at the teenager, questioning. 

" _Friends_." 

The devilish smile Santi wore made the man's face melt into his characteristic sarcastic glare. After a pause, he responded. " _No_ , not really." 

"And you're living with him now." 

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, and? What's your theory on this?" 

"You're together!" The kid was way too evilly-excited for Feuilly's 5 A.M.-post-anxiety-attack state of mind. 

Feuilly shrugged his shoulders dramatically, throwing his arms down on the desk. "Congratulations. You've won the "Find the Gays" award," he replied, with mock enthusiasm. 

Santi still looked excited, and Feuilly asked him why he was so curious, anyway. "Well, cause Bahorel is fucking awesome. He's been like, I don't know, the brother I don't have since he moved in here! Also, I like to tease him. So now that he's got a boyfriend, I can do just that." 

He laughed a little at that, taking note of Bahorel's relationship with the kid. It was cool--Feuilly just didn't really connect well (like that wasn't obvious in every human interaction he'd ever had). "You're not going to be able to tease him about me. I'm distinctly cooler than he is." 

Santi laughed, a little too loud and brash for Feuilly. "I'll find a way. Your boyfriend is a huge dork, actually." 

"Uh, we're not actually.. boyfriends? It's not exactly defined." 

"Ah, there! You gave me something to tease him about." 

"Don't, seriously. We're not there yet. Just let it- us- be. It's too late, early, whatever; I'm going upstairs. Nice meeting you, I'll see you around?" Feuilly was uncomfortable, now. Too much talking around personal subjects with a stranger. 

"Alright. Got it. You, too, and sure! Tell Bahorel to plan something, we'll show you around the good places in Seattle." His wide smile shone out. "Morning!" 

Feuilly held a hand up in goodbye to Santi, and punched the button on the elevator. No stairwells, this time, thank you. He liked the kid, he decided. He wasn't bad, just a lot to take in way too early after way too much. Not like Feuilly was good with people to begin with. 

* * *

 

The apartment key was the only thing in Feuilly's front pocket. He took it out and slid it into the lock, carefully opening the door without waking up Bahorel. _Please don't let him be awake already._  Feuilly took a step inside, and knew the other man was still in bed. There was no movement from anywhere inside the apartment. He slid off his boots at the door, tiptoeing across the hard floor back to the bedroom. The door was open, as he'd left it, and the stupid goddamn fan was still clicking. It wasn't as mind-pummeling now, but it was still an annoying sound. Feuilly was sure he had fifteen bucks to buy them a new one. 

The window was still the only light in the room, besides the alarm clock (that now said 5:23 A.M.). It was less dark than it had been a little over an hour ago, when the whole thing started, but the sun was nowhere near rising. Bahorel was asleep, as he'd assumed, looking as content as ever. He was humorously beautiful, lying there sleeping. His mouth was hanging open, and his long limbs nearly hung off the bed, but everything attractive about him in the light grew even more alluring in his state of rest. Feuilly ran a hand across the bed, feeling the sheets, wary of the sleeping man. There was a black chair next to the bed, which Feuilly saw and claimed as his own. Pulling out his pack and lighter, he sat down. It was right in front of the window; he reached out, unlocked, and lifted the glass so he could peek his head out. Lights were beginning to turn on in the surrounding buildings, people waking up for work and for life. Probably a few people just like himself, too. Leaning over the frame, he pulled another cigarette out and lit it. The wind wasn't blowing towards him--he'd smell like smoke, but the apartment wouldn't. Now that he thought of it, though, it already had a sort of cigarette odor.. maybe it was the building in general? 

Feuilly sat there with his head and arms outside the window for some time, smoking and watching the city wake up. He couldn't see down to the water, but he could see the Space Needle and office buildings and the more-relaxed urban streets that surrounded him. The early morning air was cool, it felt amazing blowing across his face. It reminded him of the place they'd come from in Colorado, with the chilled air and dark skies. It was, however, completely different, and there was no escaping that fact. Feuilly could accept it, though. How far things had come in only a few days. After those few thoughts, he stopped with the reflecting. He was going to move forward, in this very attractive city, with the very attractive man asleep a few feet away. So he sat there, now contented, watching the city and the sky. 

His light eyelashes were falling shut against his cheeks, one hand hanging out of the window with the burning cigarette, head leaned against the window frame. Tranquility was sending him back to sleep, when a pair of muscled arms wrapped around him from behind. Feuilly flicked his eyes open, remembering Bahorel was there. He put his head back against the man's shoulder, tilting his head up to see through his curls at Bahorel. 

Leaning around to kiss his cheek, Bahorel uttered a good morning to him. "Why are you up so early? You look ridiculously tired," he mumbled, curling around Feuilly, kissing down his jaw. 

"I had a shitty first night home. Sorry.. and good morning, to you, too." Feuilly turned his head to kiss the man back, softly. 

Bahorel smiled, almost sorrowfully, and moved to pull up a chair next to the man at the window. "I know you know you could've woken me up," he said. "And you taste like cigarettes." 

Feuilly held up the arm hanging out of the window in response, flicking the ash down into the street, far below. "I'm alright now. Made a few promises to myself." 

He took a long drag as he watched the darker man beside him, who was taking in both the cityscape and his apparent-smoker boy at six in the morning. "I didn't know you were a smoker," Bahorel stated, reaching behind him to tie back his hair. 

Cutting hazel eyes turned to Bahorel, lazily staring down his dark brown pair. "I'm not." _Normally_ , Feuilly thought. 

He ran a tongue over his teeth, looking back at the ginger man. "You're smoking right now." 

"That's true," Feuilly replied, as he looked back out the window at the sky, which was now pink-streaked with sunrise. He knew Bahorel was still watching him as he reached down to his pack and pulled out another cigarette, and handed it to him. "And one for you, because you can't tell me that I'll never taste the smoke on you." 

Bahorel's tanned hand reached out to accept it, while his other grabbed a beat-up lighter off the side table. "Won't say anything, then. You'll taste it more often than I'm sure you'd like to. Bad habits die hard, and I can't bring myself to part," he replied, as he lit up and puffed smoke out of his lungs. 

"It's stupid, it's horrible. It's okay, though. Do what you need to, that's my bullshit policy." Feuilly said it lightheartedly, but his eyes were faraway as the words came out. Already, Bahorel was perfectly intuitive towards him, and caught it. He took Feuilly's hand in his, and they sat like that, perched next to each other, for a half hour more before either even thought of doing anything. 

It was nighttiming, it was contentment, it was a screwed up kind of relief system, but they were together and that was it. There would be mornings that happened like that in the future, but as time passed, they decreased, and truly happier moments took their place. For now, though, they enjoyed the sunrise with their cigarettes. They were tired and meditative, and as the sun lifted higher, Feuilly's spirit did as well. It was nearly seven, and all of Seattle was moving, it seemed. The two men had put out their last cigarettes of the morning. Feuilly grasped Bahorel's hand tight, in thank you's and promises. Through the middle of their foggy minds and illuminated profiles, there was a noise from outside the apartment door that took them out of their clouded daybreak minds. 

Bahorel turned to look at Feuilly, with a detectable gleam in his eye. "I think," he started, with a tiny, pleasant smirk, "that you've got someone to meet." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, thank y'all so much for your patience! I love you all and hope you enjoyed. Next chapter will come sooner, hopefully.


	8. --Author's Announcement--

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author's Announcement

Hey everyone--this is an announcement from the author. Wanted to publish it as a chapter for right now, only so you all know what's going on. Obviously, I haven't updated in a multitude of weeks, and I feel like SHIT for that. I'm so sorry! School started back on the 25th of August, and I am drowning in stress. Therefore, I'm taking a break from writing this for a while... I promise, I will get back to it eventually! (However, there are no promises as to just when I'll be writing again.) I'm struggling to even do my personal writing, which I've carried on for years. Let's just blame physics, college history, and AP calculus! 

Thank you all for understanding. Y'all are the best! If you want to talk headcanons, my characters, or anything in the les mis universe (or beyond!), send a message on tumblr: lesmegarables :) 

-Megan


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